Curiosity
by TheLetter5
Summary: A mysterious stranger has Rogue bewitched and bothered what kind of thief wears big chrome boots and a magenta spandex shirt? Tell me you've never asked yourself that question about Gambit... ROMY, plot thickening. Rating for lang/future ROMY.
1. Chapter 1

This is my first attempt at a story here, reviews are much appreciated (please!)

Right now this is a one-shot bit of fluffiness, possibly the seed of a bigger story if I get a positive response (hint hint!). The basic premise is something I've always been a little curious about, being a Gambit fan. For those who are keeping track, there is some implied Logan/Jubilee, and I'm setting the stage for a future Romy.

This takes place nominally in the X-Men Evolution universe, in that Rogue is younger - still in school. I'm ignoring Cajun Spice, unfortunately, and making reference to Gambit's introduction to the X-Men universe in Uncanny X-Men #266/267 - if you haven't read the comics, he rescues a youthened Storm and takes her back to New Orleans with him. All you need to know from that is that Storm knows him, and has reason to vouch for him.

* * *

**  
Curiosity**

"He's a thief?" Rogue shifted casually, angling herself for a better view of the new arrival.

Jubilee blithely ignored the Southern belle's scathing tone. "He's not just _a_ thief – I heard he's the head of the Thieves' Guild in New Orleans!"

Rogue bit her lip as her eyes traveled from his wild hair to the muscle shirt that lovingly highlighted his chiseled abs, taking in the 5-o'clock shadow and the arrogant, graceful slouch. He was tall. His faded brown duster flared around his boots as he paced restlessly.

"What kinda thief wears chrome-plated boots and a magenta spandex shirt?" Rogue asked scornfully. She abandoned any pretense and stared openly at the stranger.

Jubilee rolled her eyes. "Haven't you been listening?" She looked over at the other woman, grinning openly at her obvious fixation. "Besides, I'd say that's more of a fuchsia than a magenta."

"Like ah'd know the difference," Rogue muttered, still staring at the mysterious man pacing the entryway of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. "What's he doin', casin' the joint?"

Jubilee frowned in irritation. "It's some big secret, no one will tell me anything."

"Can't imagine he's all that great of a thief – bet ya can see him comin' a mile away, all shiny and _fuchsia_." Rogue froze as the pacing stopped and the man turned toward her, a glint of crimson flashing deep in the shadows of his eyes. _Oh Gawd, he didn't hear me . . . did he?_ She stood, transfixed by the fire flickering in the darkness, her embarrassment at being caught staring forgotten for the moment.

"Remy!" The mystery man spun around, turning his attention to the Goddess at the top of the stairs. She flushed, whatever spell he'd cast broken as he turned away from her.

Jubilee whistled softly; maybe it was just Logan rubbing off on her, but she could almost taste the tension between the two.

Rogue let out the breath she didn't even realize she was holding.

* * *

"So the mystery man's name is Remy," Jubilee mused as she nibbled on a French fry. "Sounds French." 

"Ah was there too," Rogue gritted her teeth in irritation, resisting the urge to throw a fry at the bubbly woman.

Rogue shifted uneasily at Jubilee's wickedly sweet, predatory smile. The Wolverine was definitely rubbing off on her. "That's funny, with the way you were staring I'd have guessed you were somewhere else completely," she said smugly, leaving Rogue with the distinct impression she'd just walked into some sort of verbal trap.

"Hard not to stare at that getup," she muttered, trying desperately to salvage the situation. "Ah mean, what kinda thief wears chrome boots?"

"What boots? You were supposed to let me know if you were going shopping today, there's like this huge sale at the shoe store," Kitty pouted as she set her plate down next to Jubilee. "God, this is massively unfair, I can't wait till I get my license!"

Jubilee snickered at Kitty's dramatics, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Oh, we didn't go to the mall . . . we were actually on our way to find you, but we got a little distracted."

"By boots?" Kitty asked skeptically.

Jubilee was grinning from ear to ear; she didn't even bat an eyelash when Rogue kicked her under the table.

"Rogue was just doing a little window shopping." When had Jubilee gotten to be so evil? That innocent face, that too-casual tone . . . Rogue was definitely going to have a long talk with Logan. The man had created a monster.

Rogue took a large bite of her cheeseburger to shut herself up. She knew anything she said now would only be used against her.

"Have you seen the new guy?" There was that casual tone again.

Kitty frowned. "The tall man with the trench coat and the weird boots?"

"Ah told ya there was somethin' weird about him," Rogue said around a mouthful of hamburger. Both of the girls turned to stare at her.

"Who ist veird?" Kurt asked cluelessly, pulling up a chair and plopping down next to Rogue. "Ist someone bothering you, _mein__schwester_?"

"Rogue, sweetie, I know you've got this entire Goth, counter-culture "I-hate-the-world" thing going on, but do you really think you could pull off a pair of boots like that?"

"I don't think it was the boots she was staring at," Jubilee smirked.

Rogue flushed, concentrating on the ketchup bottle and deliberately ignoring the two gossip girls.

Kitty dropped her fork at Jubilee's insinuating tone, sparing a glance at the obviously flustered Rogue. "Give," she demanded of Jubilee.

Damned glass bottle. You had to have special mutant powers to get any ketchup on your food. She gave the offending bottle a smack right on the sweet spot, spraying globs of ketchup all over her plate.

Kurt was completely lost, his gaze darting back and forth between the two gossip queens and his sister like he was watching a tennis match. He could only pick out a few words over the bustling clamor of the dining hall.

"Who is zis man?" Kurt prodded gently, keeping his voice low.

"Ah wasn' starin' at him!" she blurted out defensively. Rogue slammed the ketchup bottle down on the table, focusing her considerable irritation on the inanimate object and avoiding Kurt's concerned stare. "Ah . . . ah don' feel good. Ah'm gonna go lie down." She shoved her chair back from the table and stood abruptly, colliding with something solid as she turned to storm off. Rogue sat down hard, ears ringing from the impact with the polished hardwood floor.

She shook her head to clear the ringing, looking around the find the culprit, ready to give him a piece of her mind. The words died on her lips as her eyes fixed on a pair of metal-plated boots. Closer inspection revealed they weren't really chrome – they lacked the garish mirrored perfection of true chrome. They were shiny, a burnished metallic polish that gleamed under the light. She could almost see her reflection.

"Are y'all right, _cherie_?"

His voice startled her out of her reverie; it was smoke and honey and bourbon, and it rumbled through her with a physicality that left her stunned. It seemed she could feel his voice at the tips of her gloved fingers, at the nape of her neck, a seductive caress wafting around her, seeping under her skin. She knew she was staring. Again.

Rogue closed her mouth and looked up – way up. He was leaning over her with a knowing smirk, one hand extended to help her up. She brushed the hand aside and pushed herself to her feet, opening her mouth once more to show this cheeky bastard the sharper side of her tongue. And then her eyes met his, deep jade to blazing red and she forgot her irritation, her embarrassment. Curiosity overtook her, working its way to the surface of a turbulent mess of conflicting emotions. Those demon eyes seemed to flicker softly as he watched in amusement, banked embers in deep shadow, glowing fiercely but casting no light into the darkness. Burning into her, hypnotic and mysterious and tempting.

"Watch where ya goin'. An don' touch me," Rogue managed finally, turning and fleeing for the safety of her room.

* * *

If she thought hiding in her room for a few hours would stop them all from talking, she was sadly mistaken. When she finally ventured downstairs for breakfast, hungry and still irritated, she'd been cornered almost immediately by Jean. 

"Rogue, I hear you missed dinner last night. Are you feeling alright?" The taller woman took herself so seriously. Rogue was sure she had heard several versions of what had happened. Still, she was a powerful telepath. Rogue tried desperately to keep her thoughts to herself, but control of that sort had never been her strong point.

"Ah'm fine, thanks." Damn the man and his glowing eyes and his stupid boots.

Jean frowned as if puzzled.

That hadn't been a quiet thought. She didn't know much about guarding the secrets of her mind, but she was pretty sure that her mental outbursts – fiery and spontaneous – were as easy for the telepath to "hear" as her verbal outbursts.

"I'm so glad to hear it." The redhead was visibly distracted as she excused herself abruptly.

* * *

"You've met him?" 

Jean nodded, keeping her mind carefully blank. She shouldn't feel guilty, it wasn't as if she'd "peeked" – not really, anyway. Rogue had practically been shouting. She sighed, trying to think of something else, but those boots kept dancing through her thoughts, an echo of Rogue's fascination stirring within her.

Jean hated to admit it, but the Rogue had a point – what kind of thief wore big, shiny boots and a bright pink muscle shirt? Fuchsia, she corrected herself. She smiled at the memory – Rogue's memory. Rogue had really been broadcasting. Jean was surprised sometimes that normal people couldn't hear Rogue's impetuous thoughts; perhaps it was a reaction to the physical restrictions that her mutation imposed on her, to have such a boisterous, overbearing mental voice.

Jean blinked, starting softly at the realization that the Professor was waiting on something. Waiting on her assessment of the thief. _He's not just any thief. _She wasn't really sure if that was her or Rogue.

"I talked to him, briefly," she offered, trying to collect her impressions of him, to sort through her interactions and find something helpful. She couldn't imagine that she'd have picked up anything the Professor would have missed. Unless . . .

She debated briefly over whether or not to tell him. After all, the memory wasn't hers. She shouldn't feel guilty, she reminded herself once more. Besides, she had an obligation to report anything strange. If this man was going to be working with them, she wanted to make sure that the Professor had all the pieces.

"He's an empath – I don't know the extent of his powers, but he seems to be able to hypnotize people. Charm them, I guess."

The Professor didn't question her knowledge. She wondered sometimes about the extent of his powers. She knew he would never "peek" – knew that even if he did, she'd be able to tell, if not to actually stop him. Still, she wondered. Wondered if maybe, to a telepath of his skill and range, if maybe she herself was shouting?

* * *

"You know, I always wondered about that," the weather Goddess admitted, biting her lip thoughtfully. "He hasn't changed since we first crossed paths – he was quite the charmer, and I can tell you that neither shirt nor boots were any impediment to his . . . shall we say questionable activities." 

Scott managed to look confused. Storm was always amazed that she could tell, with his eyes completely hidden from view behind his crimson-tinted sunglasses. Jean shot him a meaningful look as the Professor entered, a reminder to keep his mouth and his mind shut.

Charles Xavier was not a man to mince words, but he kept the briefing short and to the point. Jean was careful to keep a lid on her curiosity, and to his credit, she heard not a peep out of Scott, either. Their assignment was simple – and incredibly dangerous. The Professor was always hesitant about sending his team into danger, but the need was great, and he knew that Storm and Scott could handle themselves. The riskiest part of the mission relied solely on the unique skills of the newcomer – Storm's erstwhile mentor, the head of the Thieves' Guild, the man who called himself Gambit.

The Professor trusted Storm's judgment of the man implicitly, but something was bothering him . . . something other than the impenetrable static which prevented him from reading the man. He suppressed a frown, steepling his fingers and composing himself. As the trio stood to leave, it hit him.

_The boots_. What kind of thief would wear such bulky, conspicuous boots?

He bit his tongue as they filed out of the war room, wondering how he could satisfy his curiosity without seeming . . . undignified. For the first time in recent memory, he was tempted to "peek" – though he had to wonder if that irrational urge was fed in part by the knowledge that peeking was not an option.

The Professor sighed, forcing his mind back on track. There was much to be done if this mission was to succeed.

* * *

"Is he really as good as he says he is?" Scott asked doubtfully, eyeing the man seated at the bar. 

"Better," Storm said with confidence, sauntering up to the flamboyantly dressed Cajun. She tried not to stare at the boots as he motioned for the bartender to pour her a shot. Garish, unwieldy, flamboyant – still, she knew from experience that the bulky, armored boots had not hindered his ability to meld with the shadows, the brightly colored shirt stretched tight over his finely sculpted torso had not prevented him from blending seamlessly with the teeming night life of the Big Easy. No, for all his vices – and the man who called himself Gambit had many vices – he was by far the best thief she'd ever known.

Storm tossed back another shot, exhaling forcefully as the bourbon coated her throat with liquid fire. She'd lost track of how many she'd had, and she knew she was more than a little drunk. The Cajun was waiting for something – for someone, more likely.

She waved at the bartender.

"_Chere_, I t'ink y've had enough."

Storm giggled. Giggled like a school girl, truth be told, but she was too far into her cups to notice. "Remy, there's something I have to know. I never really thought to ask you all those years ago . . . I don't think one more would hurt, would it?"

"Dat de question, Stormy?"

She was giggling again. She didn't notice that the shot glass Remy slid toward her was only half full, barely even registered the nickname. The fiery liquid filled her throat, setting fire to her blood. Liquid courage.

"You're a hell of a thief, Remy," she said, ignoring his motions for her to keep quiet. "But I have to know – what is the deal with those big, chrome boots?"

"Dey're not chrome," he said defensively, a small smile quirking his lip. Storm stiffened as his face went blank. "Dat's him, _chere_. Follow my lead."

It seemed her curiosity would have to wait.

* * *

Well, that's it for now! Please please review! 


	2. Chapter 2

**Curiosity**

**Chapter 2: Intrigue**

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! LOLConquistadorImp, don't hurt the bunny! And nevermindthebuttocks, love the name! I've decided to write on, but I'm being deliberately vague, as I haven't an answer to my own question yet/p

I'm picking this up from the beginning again here, this time from Remy's point of view. I'm doing this because I'm mixing comic and cartoon canon, and I want to give you, the reader, some idea of Gambit's back story according to my own twisted universe (Gambit meets Storm when he rescues her younger self from the Nanny, but he doesn't/has yet to follow her to the X-Men, as he did in the comic, and if you're not familiar with his history with Sinister, the Marauders and the Morlocks, I'll be getting into that later as well)

* * *

The evening sun streamed through a gap in the heavy drapes, filtering lazily through slow eddies of smoke. The shadows were deep, as if the sun itself struggled to penetrate the secrets of the ancient structure, with its massive timbers and rough-hewn stone. A red glow simmered in the darkness, echoed briefly by two brief flares.

The man stood motionless, blending seamlessly with the growing shadows, the forgotten cigarette dangling limply from his lips. Remy LeBeau was a man with more than a few skeletons in his closet, a man who was well accustomed to having the demons of his past come back to haunt him.

It had been only a few short years since he'd first run across Ororo Munroe, rescuing the little street thief from the clutches of the vile mutant who'd sought to control her mind and her heart and her powers.

The phone call had surprised him. Remy had been wandering the globe aimlessly, chasing the tattered remnants of his former band as much as he was running from the fallout of that too-brief alliance with the Assassin's Guild. Not that he would admit to it. How the Goddess had managed to track him down, he would never know. He was not accustomed to being caught off guard.

What was the old saying? It takes a thief to catch a thief.

Remy's eyes flared in the stark blackness; the sun had long since set while he stood unmoving, considering his next move. He sighed, dislodging the thick tail of ash from the end of his cigarette. His mind had been made up before he'd even replaced the receiver.

He never could resist a damsel in distress.

* * *

Remy could feel the tension in the air, a heady, hypnotic thrum of potential energy. The vibrations rippled through him, energizing his body; he found himself pacing the entryway, his body acting unconsciously on the potential surging around him. 

Gambit was a creature of energy, drinking in its seductive potential and feeding off its tangible pull; it pulsed and eddied around him, surrounding him and coating him like the smoke from a fine cigar. It was intoxicating, and it called to him.

The cards disappeared back into his pocket with a deft flick of his wrist; it was a nervous habit of his, one of the few he allowed himself. Gambit never tipped his hand, never dropped his poker face. He didn't stop his pacing. He knew why he was on edge. Most of humanity showed up on his "radar" as background noise – he could sense the warp and the weave of the energy that flowed through their bodies, but it was like listening to a distant conversation. It required conscious effort. Mutants, on the other hand . . . some of them were almost invisible to his enhanced perception, only showing up when their powers manifested themselves.

Storm, he remembered, was a quiet, dangerous hum, slowly weaving its speculative dissonance through the trees and the air and the mountains. She was the power of the rain and the lightning and all of the tumultuous seasons; when she opened her arms and her eyes and called on those forces . . . it was a blinding light, a deafening roar of energy.

He could feel her song, joined with the thronging clamor that permeated the manor house. Gambit had never been surrounded by this much living, breathing power. It confounded him, this vibration that hummed on its own, singing its own song . . . his power was about potential, awakening the sleeping forces in the inanimate objects around him, but this force lived of its own accord, its vibrant, chaotic potential assaulting his senses, throwing him off balance.

He should have noticed it before, that dull prickling sensation raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He was being watched. He spun, a card appearing between his gloved fingers in a motion so practiced it transcended conscious thought. Instinct. A matter of survival, for a man of his . . . talents. His eyes locked on the threat.

The card disappeared just as quickly as he'd drawn it, and he stopped to take in the two girls at the end of the hallway. Jumping at shadows. The taller one was eyeing him with undisguised interest, her green eyes blazing through a veil of twisted auburn and platinum curls. He smiled, the smallest quirk of his lips, and he forced open his shields. Just for a moment, he felt her curiosity, desire and defiant challenge threading through the tumultuous mix. His eyes flared briefly as he reached out, combing through the tangled mess and drawing out the curiosity, the desire. If the girl with her noticed anything unusual about her friend's sudden hypnosis, her emotions didn't betray her.

"Remy!"

His shields snapped back into place, a thin sheen of perspiration dotting his brow as he spun to greet the goddess waiting at the top of the steps. She was a far cry indeed from the child he'd rescued, an exotically tall beauty with caramel skin and opalescent hair and an air of confidence, of command. A strong woman, a woman accustomed to being obeyed.

"Stormy!_Dieu_,_cherie_, y'quite a sight for dese sore eyes," he smiled. A discrete glance down the hall confirmed that the girls had left; he smiled to himself, dashing up the steps to greet Storm properly.

"Y'miss me?" He asked cheekily, raising her hand to his lips in a courtly gesture, trying to shake the girl from his thoughts. Whatever possessed her to put skunk stripes in her hair? Kids these days . . .

"Remy, I'm so glad you came," she said. Her eyes were warm, sincere in her gratitude. She hadn't been certain of his reaction to being tracked down.

"How c'd I resist?" He smiled, a devilish smirk. "Y'hurt me,_cherie_ . . . t'ought at least I get a phone call, a letter from y' . . . but _non_,_de femmes_, dey only call Gambit when dey want somet'ing." She didn't miss the mischievous glint in his eyes, the playful quirk of his lips.

She snorted with amusement; Ororo was well aware of what '_de femmes_' usually wanted from Gambit, and she was pretty sure that he was the one that did the calling. She supposed that she should be honored, that he had let her find him, that he had traveled so far on just her word that she needed his help.

* * *

Remy stifled a sigh as the man rambled on about discretion and circumspection, which he supposed was intended to reassure him that the X-Men would not summarily hand him over to the police, and about the X-Men themselves, how each member brought their own 'unique skills' to the team. 

The Professor's study was well-appointed, luxurious without being crass or overbearing. He noted, with a thief's eye, the 16th century Japanese woodblock above the mantel and the 18th century bronze statue of Kali on his desk. Interesting choice for a man of peace.

"So . . . y'want me t'steal somet'ing?"

The man didn't react, not a flicker of annoyance or impatience playing across his inscrutable countenance. _Quite a poker face_, Remy mused, his mind straying back to the girl with the elbow-high gloves and the platinum-streaked hair. Storm managed to hide her amused smile behind her hand, disguising the motion as a yawn.

Remy was not fooled. He spared her a hurt look before turning back to the bald man sitting before him, fingers steepled in front of him. Professor Charles Xavier, the leader of the mutant X-Men. Gambit had heard of this man, had done his homework on the X-Men back when he was still heir to the Thieves' Guild.

"Gambit, the X-Men strive to relieve the tensions mounting between mutants and humanity, to bring a stop to the coming war. Make no mistake, there are parties on both sides that are pushing for conflict. Storm has shared little with me about your past." He paused, and Gambit was sure that remark was also intended to reassure him. "Nonetheless, we are aware of certain . . . talents . . . that you possess, which would be extremely useful to our cause," he said delicately.

He seemed to expect something, some sort of response from Gambit.

"Y'want me t'blow somet'ing up?" he hazarded. Gambit was fairly certain that the Professor knew not only of his skills as a thief, but of his mutant powers. He kept his face carefully blank as he felt the Professor probe his shields, the faintest brush against that wall he'd worked so hard to build.

It seemed the other man was tiring of the little game they were playing.

"I noticed you admiring that statue of Kali."

Gambit let the barest hint of a smirk drift across his features. "Habit," he drawled unapologetically.

"Did you know that for centuries, Kali was worshipped as a figure of destruction and chaos? The dark counterpart to her consort, Shiva . . . a balancing force of nature. Darkness in the female realm to counter lightness in the male." He watched Gambit carefully, looking for any sort of reaction. "During the eighteenth century, Bengali tradition began to revere Kali as a mother figure – uniting the two forces in one figure. Good and evil, creation and chaos in one being."

Gambit wondered if he was going somewhere with this. Light and dark, platinum and auburn . . . focus, man!

"She reminds me of the struggle within all of us," he sighed quietly, and Gambit could swear he aged in that moment, the weariness written clearly in the deep lines of his face, in the slight falter to his voice.

"Philosophy's a little over de head of dis simple t'ief," Gambit said slowly.

"Gambit, there is a war coming. Already, the first battles are being planned, staged carefully by those whose interests favor a conflict. We need your help, Gambit, your particular skills in negotiation and leadership, as well as your singular reputation among the . . ." He trailed off, searching for the words.

"Me reputation among de t'ieves, de criminal elemen'."

The barest twitch of his steepled fingers acknowledged Gambit's blunt interjection.

"We won't ask you to do anything you're uncomfortable with," Storm chimed in, her throaty voice an odd counterpart to the professor's gravelly tones.

"There are many players in this game, Gambit, and I have every confidence that with your experience, you can help us sort this out. There was a mutant group called the Morlocks, living in the subway system. Cast out by society, they lived underground, banding together for comfort and safety, stealing to live."

Gambit kept his features carefully schooled, wondering just how much this man knew about him.

"The Morlocks were slaughtered – by a team of mutants. We don't yet know why, but we have reason to believe that the perpetrators – a band called the Marauders – were organized by a man known as Sinister. Most of the survivors fled the city. We were able to persuade several of them to take up residence here, but after the recent terrorist attacks against the Morlocks remaining in the subways, they disappeared. We believe they answered a call to arms. The Morlocks are recruiting, their numbers swelling – and it seems as if they are no longer a peaceful, self-contained band of exiles. They are training, organizing . . . retaliating."

Still no hint of a reaction betrayed the features of the enigmatic thief. The two men sat in contemplation, neither saying anything to break the heavy silence.

"What d'you need me t'do?"

The Professor's eyes unfocused briefly, his face blank, as if he was staring into the distance. He smiled, nodding vaguely to Storm. "I'll let Ororo fill you in on the details."

It was a clear dismissal. Gambit stood to follow the goddess from the room.

"Your past cannot haunt you forever Gambit. The X-Men are about forgiveness, absolution."

Gambit spun to face the man, his silhouette darkening the doorway, wondering if his demon eyes betrayed his thoughts to the telepath. There was nothing blank or vague about the other man's expression. He stared at the Professor for a long time before responding. "P'haps," he said mildly, turning to follow Storm down the hallway.

* * *

"What is dis place?" Gambit's voice betrayed wonder and confusion. 

"This is the dining hall." Storm hid her slight smile. The school could be overwhelming at first, from the sheer size and scale of the building – Storm's smile deepened slightly when she imagined the thief's reaction to the carefully concealed tunnels and the basement caverns – to the inhabitants themselves, mutants of all ages, shapes, and colors. Use of powers was forbidden in the common areas such as the dining hall, which meant, of course, that they were surrounded by dazzling, poorly-concealed displays of power.

"You get used to it," she said softly, leading him into the throng.

Gambit wondered if she had any idea of the riotous clamor of harnessed energy overwhelming his senses, each thread a voice raised in song, the shrill dissonance beautiful in its own right.

He followed Storm as she wove her way deftly through the crowd, acknowledging the occasional student with a wave or a nod.

"What's for lunch, Stormy?"

"I believe it's hamburger day- there are, of course, vegan and vegetarian options if you are so inclined," she said flippantly, gesturing toward a well-appointed salad bar. "And don't call me Stormy."

Gambit followed her lead, putting together his burger and wandering over to the condiment bar. "Don't s'pose y'got anyt'ing wit' a bit more . . . personality," he asked hopefully, eyeing the bottles of ketchup, mayonnaise and mustard with distaste. A single bottle of Tabasco sauce sat to the side, unnoticed and unused.

"Don' know what d'hell y'tink m'sposed t'do ta m'burger wit de mayonnaise, dat's what we call sacrilege in m'neck o'de woods," he muttered under his breath, his accent becoming more pronounced with his agitation.

"I'm afraid what you see is what you get, for now, but I can pass your objections on to the cook," she said with a tolerant smile, reaching for the mustard.

They sat in companionably silence, focusing on the food. Gambit hadn't realized how hungry he was; the plane ride from France, the passage through customs, and the journey from the airport . . . it had been almost 24 hours since he'd eaten last. His stomach growled in protest as he numbly choked down the bland hamburger, draining the last of his lemonade in an attempt to wash the thing down.

"Cherie, y'need a refill on dat drink?"

"Always the gentleman, Remy," she said, shaking her head as he stood.

He wove his way back to the drink line with a practiced ease; the first thing he learned as a thief was how to blend with a crowd, to move as he wished without disturbing the flow of people around him.

Something soft collided with his chest, bouncing back and landing on the hardwood floor with a distinct thud. _So much for stealth and skill_, he thought wryly, looking down to survey the damage.

His eyes flared as they traveled over the girl at his feet, tangled auburn curls tumbling in disarray over her face. He reached out again, tugging gently on her curiosity, nurturing the thread of intrigue weaving through the rest of the tangle.

"Are y'all right, _cherie_?"

She looked up at his, glaring at his outstretched hand before swatting it away with a gloved hand.

"Watch where ya goin'. An don' touch me." She pushed herself to her feet, turning and stalking from the room. He noticed how the crowd parted before her, the other students unconsciously avoiding her as she made a beeline for the door.

"Pardon, ladies," he nodded to the girls at the table; one of them had been with the girl earlier. He smiled to himself, making a note to find out her name. Shouldn't be difficult, with those flashing green eyes and that distinctive white stripe in her auburn curls. She had a taste of the South on her tongue, a lilting drawl that promised sugar and spice and reminded him of home. There was nothing like a Southern belle with fire.


	3. Chapter 3

**Curiosity**

**Chapter 3: Interest**

Disclaimer: Yeah, it seems I've forgotten the disclaimer part in the preceding chapters. Let's see, I don't own ANY of the following: zombies (heehee, I said the zed word!), X-Men (Uncanny X-Men, X-Men: The Animated Series, X-Men: Evolution, the X-Men movies – any of them), the SR-71 Blackbird, the X-Men version of the Blackbird, or Scoobie Doo. Or Ferris Bueller, while I'm being paranoid. And a bonus to you if you get the last two references. Oh, and a double-bonus if you don't sue me. I'm not making any money off of this, and it's really not worth your time or energy anyway. Kthx.

Author's Note: Please review, I thrive on it! Feed on it, even, like a zombie feeds on brains! Except with less gore, most of the time. Thanks to everyone who's added this story to their favorites!

Right, the story. For reference, this picks up right after Chapter 1. More cloak-and-dagger stuff, and maybe some action. Don't be alarmed by the Gambit/Storm-ness, I've marked this story as a Gambit/Rogue tale, and I promise future ROMY-ness … I'm just working up to it slowly. Trying my hand at a plot, as it were, so we'll see how that goes. I'm going to tip my hand, here, not to give away any of the story but to give a little perspective. I'm a firm believer in the inevitability of Remy and Rogue. I am convinced that no matter what alternate universe or timeline, no matter what they endure at the hands of others or themselves, through death and betrayal and wars and plagues, that they are meant to be together. That they are each others' perfect match. He could be a fry cook on Venus, and they'd still cross paths.

Ahem.

Sorry, I've just been going through some of the comics, and while it seems that the pantheon of Marvel writers agrees with me, it also seems that they like to torment these two. So unfair. Scott always has such a "healthy" relationship with Jean, or Emma, or whatever perfect clone-drone he's with at the moment, it's so well-adjusted it makes me sick. I guess I probably wouldn't be such a fan of Remy and Rogue if the angst weren't ladled on so thick.

I think I promised a story in here somewhere. Thanks for bearing with me!

* * *

It was a trap.

Remy sighed, watching the man thread his way through the maze of empty chairs. He motioned to the bartender, sliding one of the tumblers over to the bleary-eyed goddess. Storm smiled slowly, peering at him through heavy-lidded eyes, one hand stroking the glass idly as if entranced by the smooth glass, the sparkle of amber liquid it contained.

It was all too easy, the entire arrangement too neat. The man he'd been sent to meet had been too helpful, too eager to take Remy at his word. Even on his own turf, where his reputation was legendary, Remy was accustomed to being met with skepticism and fear. It didn't help that he couldn't read the man, that he'd given himself a headache trying to pick up anything at all from the shifty fellow.

He snorted in irritation; he of all people knew that there was more to reading a man than this power of his. A man could tip his hand, reveal his thoughts in any of a thousand small ways, with the slightest twitch of the hand or stray glance. Remy LeBeau could spot a liar with his eyes closed. And he'd bet his last chip the man was a liar.

A slight shift in potential tugged at his senses, and he turned, catching Storm before she slid off the bar stool.

"Easy dere, Stormy," he chuckled, arranging her carefully back on the stool and motioning for the check.

She was giggling. Again. Not her normal, throaty laugh, but a high-pitched, giddy, school-girl giggle.

"Don't call me Stormy," she gasped, fighting to regain control of herself, to make the room stop spinning. She hadn't had that much . . . had she? The room was a blur of smoke and magenta – or was it fuchsia? – and chrome . . . _no, dey're not chrome_, she corrected herself, stifling another giggle.

Remy watched in silence as Scott left the bar, slipping out the double doors with a laughable attempt at stealth. The man had no talent for sneaking; it wasn't that he was clumsy. Far from it, truth be told.

_He t'inks dis some kind'a game_. Remy spared a glance at Storm, who seemed to be staring at the floor in fascination. He'd seen her melt effortlessly into the shadows of a N'awlins alley, blend seamlessly into the garish fray of a Mardi Gras parade.

Scott, on the other hand, looked like he was trying to be sneaky. Like a guilty little kid just waiting to be caught. He reminded Remy of the exaggerated stealthy tip-toeing of a certain band of crime-solving cartoon characters (accompanied, of course, by an appropriately silly soundtrack). Remy sighed, wondering if Scott had actually deluded himself into thinking he'd be able to follow their contact.

"Y'alright, dere, _cherie_?" He slipped an arm around her from behind, steadying her as she slid off the bar stool. He almost dropped the goddess when he felt her hand slip under his trench coat, her fingers trailing delicately over the well-defined contours of his chest. "Fuchsia," she sighed, dissolving into a fit of giggles.

She'd definitely had too much. So much for a quiet exit. "Easy now, darlin', let's keep dis G-rated for de kiddies," he soothed, ignoring her small sound of protest as he removed her wandering hand from under his coat. He looped her arm over his shoulders, thankful that the slender woman was so close to his own height. It would have been easier to carry her out, but he was trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. "To de Mystery Machine," he muttered sarcastically, guiding her carefully toward the exit. They only knocked over two chairs on their way out.

* * *

They didn't have to wait long for Scott to return to the jet. Remy didn't need his empathic senses to feel the man's frustration. 

"Y'lost him, den," he mused, not sounding at all surprised. Or worried.

Scott stiffened at the myriad implications in the thief's tone, shooting the other man a sharp look.

"If you didn't think I could follow him, why didn't you say something?"

"Would'a listened to me? Don' t'ink so," he smirked, steadying Storm as she swayed in her seat.

"Damn it, Gambit, I know you're used to working alone, but the X-Men are a team. You work with your team, you don't allow send them off on useless errands while you get drunk!"

Remy rolled his eyes. He hated explaining himself, but it seemed he had to spell things out for the X-Men's fearless leader.

"M'not drunk. Been feedin' Stormy here drinks all night, thought t'distract our mysterious friend . . . t'ink I got a bit carried away," he admitted, wincing as Storm giggled faintly.

"Don't call me Stormy," she managed, gasping for breath.

"Sure t'ing, Stormy."

Scott rolled his eyes at her giddiness. He had seen her laugh, seen her cry, upon occasion; this hard woman, this goddess – and he had seen her rage, an anger that made the very earth shake with fear – but he had never seen her giggle like a witless girl.

"That's the most irresponsible thing I've ever heard of!" Scott spat, his tone outraged.

"Oh, calm down, Scooter," Storm cut in, waving her hand ostentatiously.

"Why don't you make me, **Stormy**," he shot back, wincing as the air crackled faintly, the smell of ozone permeating the cockpit.

Cyclops rounded on the Cajun next. "And you – because of your irresponsibility, my copilot is too drunk to fly. We have to sit here, in the woods, and risk discovery while we wait for her to sober up!"

"Oh, leave it out, Scott," Storm sighed deeply, channeling her other self. The woman Scott knew, the one who was calm, and careful, and in charge. "We both know very well that you can fly the plane by yourself, it's not like we're operating under a Part 135 certificate. **Anymore**." (1)

"I had us under a certificate because the legality of transporting –"

"The company that carried the certificate was trying to use the **Blackbird** for charter operations! Not to mention the hassle of the FAA and several other governmental bodies tracking the plane's every movement!"

"Yes, but –"

She cut him off again. "Scott, it's hardly fair to lecture about legality when you faked your medical certificate! And you registered the Blackbird as a Learjet!"

How had she found out about that? "How did you –"

"Scott, you're colorblind! You see only in shades of red. Jet pilots cannot be colorblind!"

Scott opened his mouth as if to retort, but thought better of it, adjusting his visor and settling sulkily into the left seat.

Gambit sighed, wondering what he'd done to deserve this. True, his life was far from blameless, but still . . .

* * *

Storm groaned as she woke, distant thunder rumbling through her room, pounding in time to her throbbing head. 

"Stormy?"

Not thunder then. Her eyes fluttered open as her door squeaked faintly on its hinges, cracking open as Remy slipped quietly inside.

"Brought y'coffee an' sometin' for y'head," he said quietly, setting the mug on her nightstand and settling himself at the edge of her bed.

Storm couldn't even summon the energy to groan.

"Y'gotta drink dat for it t'work," he urged gently, helping her to sit up in bed.

"I hate you," she moaned, reaching weakly for the coffee.

"Figured as much," he said, the mischievous twinkle in his eye lost on her as he handed her the mug.

Storm took a careful sip of the coffee, pleasantly surprised at its heady chicory overtones. Her eyes widened as she felt the pain begin to recede almost immediately, the vengeful throbbing calming itself slightly. She took another sip before speaking.

"I take it we were less than successful in our mission," she said wryly, trying to read Gambit's impassive countenance.

He smile in response, the faintest twitch of his lips. "Seems sometin' scared our contact off," he said, eyeing her fixedly.

She frowned, fidgeting under his intense gaze. Those eyes of his seemed to blaze in the depths of his shadowy face; it was arresting, mesmerizing. . .

"Why didn' ya tell me y' defeated d'leader of d'Morlocks in hand-to-hand combat?" (2)

She blinked as if confused, her eyes bleary and unfocused.

"Y' didn' t'ink dis Cajun'd be interested in dat little detail?" His voice was soft, gentle; she could detect no hint of recrimination in his tone.

"The Professor thought I'd be well-suited to accompany you on this mission because of my past experiences with the Morlocks," she admitted.

"And Scott? What does he bring t'de _team_?" He stressed that word. Team.

She sighed, wondering how she'd ever thought he would fail to understand. He knew very well what Scott's purpose had been, but he was pressing to hear her say it.

"The Professor," she started, then bit her lip. "We thought . . . "

He frowned, turning away from her. Taking pity on her. He didn't have the heart to make her say it, that Scott's sole purpose had been to keep an eye on him.

"Y' don' trust me."

"I trust you with my life," she said unhesitatingly. "That is why I called on you."

"If y'want m'help, y'gon need ta let me help."

"Teamwork –"

"Gives a man a funny feelin', de idea dat his team gon' get him killed," he said grimly, his eyes tightening.

She stiffened slightly, a hurt look on her face.

"Not you Stormy, never you," he said, realizing his meaning had been misconstrued. "But y'shoulda seen dat man tryin' t'sneak around," he said, his eyes twinkling. "You ever seen dat cartoon where dey go 'round solvin' mysteries, wit' de man an' de dog, and dat big van? Dey go sneakin' around, and dere's dis dibbity-dibbity soundtrack, an' . . ."

Ororo laughed, recognizing his attempt to lighten the mood for what it was.

* * *

Gambit slipped out of her room, pausing outside her door after carefully easing it shut. Force of habit, he supposed. It had been drilled into him from birth – first from his early childhood as a petty thief on the hard streets of the Big Easy, and then as the chosen son of the patriarch of the Thieves' Guild.

In and out, without a trace. Leave no sign to show you'd ever been there.

Of course, if he followed the advice he'd been raised on, he'd have walked out the moment they saddled him with a team. It wasn't that he objected to teamwork; quite the opposite, in fact. He simply objected to working with a team that would get him killed, through carelessness or stupidity; or worse, that would try to kill him once the job was done. That was just unprofessional. Gave thieves like him a bad reputation.

He tried to tell himself that he was staying for her. She was the little sister he'd never had, a proper scoundrel at heart and a damn fine pickpocket. But he knew very well that she could take care of herself.

Gambit stopped at the wide-open double doors of what he assumed was the TV room, hovering just out of sight at the edge of the doorway. A few students sat around the wide-screen TV in a grim silence, their attention fixed firmly on the screen.

"… act of mutant aggression at one of the abandoned branches of the 7th Avenue line. At this point, we can only speculate as to their motives for this blatant attack. Thankfully, we have no reports of any injuries so far, as the line has not been in use since the Liberty Island incident …" (3)

"Geez, when will they give Liberty Island a rest, ya know? I mean, it's not like any real damage was done, right?"

"Real smooth, Jubes," came a boy's voice, thick with sarcasm.

"Rogue …"

Gambit turned to leave, grunting as something darted around the corner, hitting him square in the chest. He reached out reflexively, catching her before she could fall.

"Easy chere, y' might wan' start makin' a habit of lookin' where ya goin'," he said lightly, looking down at the girl. She refused to meet his eye, that platinum streak winding through her tangled auburn hair and falling wildly over her forehead, hiding her eyes. It looked natural, even from close up; he wasn't an expert, but he was pretty sure she hadn't dyed it. Funny thing, that stripe. She flinched as his fingers brushed her cheek, gently sweeping her hair back.

She glared at him, her green eyes hard enough to cut diamond.

"Thought I told ya not ta touch me," she growled, jerking her arm free and slapping his fingers from her hair. Remy watched her retreating form, wondering what had just happened. He heard voices from within the TV room, and he waited, listening for some clue as to what had just happened.

"… just insensitive. I can't believe you said that to her!"

"I didn't say it to her, it just sorta came out, and you **know** I wasn't here for that! 'Sides, not like she can hurt anyone anymore …" (3)

"JUBES!"

Remy spun quickly, following the girl – Rogue? – down the hallway before anyone else could spot him, trying to make sense of what he'd just heard. He made a mental note to look up the Liberty Island incident, he vaguely remembered something involving the mutant Magneto.

* * *

_Damn Cajun_. 

Twice in as many days, she'd run smack into him. He was solid, and stronger than he looked, that arrogant slouch belying his sturdy, centered stance. A fighter, as well as a thief, then. Only his hand on her arm had kept her from falling. Twice in as many days, she'd literally _bounced_ off of him.

_His hand on her arm_.

His hand, in those odd half-gloves, on her arm.

_What kind of thief leaves his fingers bare? _

Those gloves only covered the middle and ring fingers, leaving his thumb, as well as the index and pinkie fingers, bare from the second knuckle. His fingers bare, against the thin sliver of skin on her upper arm; an inch or two not covered by glove or sleeve, the tiniest indulgence, the smallest concession to the summer heat.

_Hasn't he heard of fingerprints?_

Rogue blinked back a few stinging tears, unwilling to show weakness even when she was alone. She looked around; she'd found her way to a remote corner of the grounds. She knew if she climbed the tree to her left, the tall oak tree atop the hill, that she'd be greeted with a fantastic view of the Catskills to the west. The knowledge wasn't hers, and she certainly wasn't inclined to climb any trees. This was Logan's spot, the tree being one of the few vantage points where a soul could go to avoid the unmistakable trappings of civilization; to the south, the unavoidable glow of the city sprawl with all of its glitter and glamor, and all around her people and their buildings.

Logan had been coming here a lot, since San Francisco. Since Jean. Rogue felt an irrational stab of guilt over not being there, not fighting with her friends. She looked around cautiously, making sure she was indeed alone before settling herself down at the base of the tree. Rogue stifled a laugh; with the way he'd been avoiding her lately, she needn't have worried; it's not like he wouldn't have seen her coming. Or heard her, or smelled her . . . what must it be like, to be constantly bombarded by such a barrage of information?

She supposed it was normal, to him; maybe he'd never known any different. If he had ever been normal, he certainly didn't remember.

Rogue caught herself with a start, smoothing the edge of her glove carefully. Lately, she'd taken to fiddling with them, her fingers moving of their own accord; toying at the hem, tugging the fragile silk out of place.

Hell of a nervous habit. That thin layer of silk was all that kept her safe, that kept those around her safe. Even after the Cure, she was still wary of her bare skin. It had betrayed her too many times for her to trust. And really, with the stakes so high, how was she supposed to test it out? What if it wore off?

What if even the Cure – that powerful virus that had stopped Magneto in his tracks and felled dozens of other mutants, stripping them of their powers – what if even the Cure was not enough to completely cure her poison skin?

* * *

Gambit followed her out of the mansion, through the gardens and all the way to the edge of the property line. The sun was just setting, and there was a crisp bite to the evening air, Fall's whispered promise to Summer. He kept his distance, making sure to stay out of sight, his boots silent over the treacherous pine branches and sun-dried grasses. Another habit, ingrained so deep it was indistinguishable from instinct.

He didn't know why he was following her. He had a way with women, but sympathy, consolation – these did not number among his considerable skills. She was upset; he didn't need the brush of her anger across his empathy to know that. One look at her face was enough – those blazing green eyes, those perfect lips twisted into a disdainful sneer. She was upset, but he knew her anger wasn't directed at him. Well, most of it, anyway.

_Don't touch me_.

She'd flinched from him as if his touch would burn like his eyes. But she didn't balk in fear when her gaze met his. Most people feared his demon eyes … feared him.

_Le Diable Blanc_.

She looked around nervously before settling at the base of a tall oak tree. For a moment, he had bensure she was going to climb the massive oak. If she had turned again, she would have seen two distant pin-pricks of red, glowing faintly in the darkness. But she stayed lost in thought, staring unseeing into the distance.

He watched her for a long time, his eyes flaring to life as the light faded, the sun setting in a blaze of glory behind the distant mountains. He reached out carefully, letting his empathy wash over her, gently soothing the anger and the bitterness, subtly drawing out her pain, soothing her the only way he knew how. So bitter, for someone so young, so beautiful.

Remy allowed himself a small smile; she had his interest, now, and he was going to take his time figuring out the puzzle.

* * *

NOTE and SPOILER ALERT: some of the annotations contain spoilers for the movies and for various comic arcs.

(1) In the real world United States, aircraft charter operations require a Part 135 certificate with the FAA (as opposed to part 91, which is private aviation not involving paid passengers). I figure Scott for such a strait-laced "by-the-rules" kind of guy that he'd try something like this – a Part 135 certification carries a lot of additional rules and regulations for pilots and the aircraft itself, which a privately owned/operated/used aircraft is not required to follow. A lot of private aircraft owners choose to defray the costs of aircraft ownership by employing a manager, who carries the certificate with the FAA and charters out the aircraft when the owner is not using it (generally, a chartered aircraft flies with the owner's pilots). I guess it's funnier when everyone you know works in aviation, in some way, shape or form.

(2) In the comics (Uncanny X-Men, I believe), Storm defeats Callisto, the leader of the Morlocks, in hand-to-hand combat for the leadership of the Morlocks. She manages this despite having been weakened by Plague (which, if I remember, is the entire reason for the fight). Storm, in my opinion, is an under-valued character.

(3) refers to the first movie, in which the writers ret-conned Rogue's white streak. If you haven't seen it, Magneto kidnaps Rogue and takes her to Liberty Island, where a conference of global leaders is being held. On top of the Statue of Liberty, he uses her to power a machine that will transform ordinary humans into mutants. It will also have the unfortunate side effect of killing its power source, hence Magneto used Rogue instead of himself. Anyway, if you haven't seen it, Wolverine manages to cut her loose but it's too late – she's not breathing, and she's got those white streaks in her hair. So he touches her to bring her back, and since then she's had the streaks. It's one of the few things I like better about the movies than the comics, as it's actually a really good explanation for that streak.

(4) refers to the third movie, which I really don't like as much as the other two, but I'm going to use some plot points, namely the fact that Rogue has taken the Cure and she can touch. Why is she still wearing the gloves? Well, you'll just have to keep reading, my friend.


	4. Chapter 4

**Curiosity**

**Chapter 4: Hope  
**

Disclaimer: Why not, let's have another disclaimer. I do not own, nor am I affiliated or associated with the designers, creators or producers of ANY of the following: Uncanny X-Men, X-Men: The Animated Series, X-Men: Evolution, the as-yet-unaired Wolverine and the X-Men animated series (which looks really good, despite any convincing evidence so far for a Gambit being involved), Ultimate X-Men, X-Factor, X-Force, New X-Men, Young X-Men, Asterix and the X-Men, X and the City, or any of the X-Men movies. (If I was, you'd note the red-and-white MARVEL tag atop my work. And the conspicuous lack of this feeble disclaimer.) So please, save yourself some time and energy – don't sue me. I'm not making any money off of this.

Author's Note: Just so we're clear, Rogue has taken the Cure, as in the 3rd movie. Obviously, Jean and the Professor are not dead. I'm not writing as though the entire 3rd movie happened, I'm just sort of borrowing some plot details (in normal writing, I think this is called plagiarizing, but since it's such a diverse canon, I thought it'd be a shame not to pick and choose the plot points I liked, and what fit the story I wanted to tell). For clarification, in my little bizarre-world the Professor was never ripped apart by Jean. Also, while something happened between Jean and Logan, he obviously didn't kill her, so I'll leave that for later.

* * *

Xavier steepled his fingers, lost in thought. It seemed he had blundered. The animosity between his protégé and Ororo's enigmatic thief was clear. The mission – a first overture of peace, and offer of protection and of cooperation – had been a complete failure. That was the only thing the two men seemed to agree on. He took in Storm's furrowed brow, the tension between the two men. Yes, teaming those two up had indeed been a critical blunder . . . he was not used to making such mistakes, and it galled him more than he cared to admit.

He let out a deep breath, trying to focus his thoughts, trying to ignore Scott as he ostentatiously fiddled with his visor.

Remy lounged casually in his chair, a portrait of indolence and confidence. Xavier could feel the energy this mutant commanded, even as he appeared relaxed; he may not be able to penetrate the thief's formidable shields, but he could feel the pull of the other man's power. There was something else there as well, a different kind of pull entirely. It was almost . . . seductive. Not sexual, not entirely, but a charisma bordering on hypnotic.

There was much more to Remy LeBeau than met the eye. That the man had accepted working with a team had surprised Xavier. That the team he'd assembled for this delicate mission had managed to fail so completely . . .

"De mission don' have to be a complete failure."

Xavier blinked. The thief hadn't spoken a word since he'd assembled the three of them for the impromptu debriefing. He wondered if the man had read him somehow; could he have missed a powerful telepath behind those shields of his? He might have, on his own, but with Cerebro . . . still, his words so closely echoed Xavier's thoughts.

Remy took his silence for the invitation it was. "Sure, it's a trap, dis meetin' dey arranged. But it's still de best lead y'got. If y'want their attention, spring dis trap o'theirs."

The idea had merit. The tactics were certainly sound: meet the enemy on unexpected ground, or if you could not manage that, meet the enemy on expected ground with unexpected force. But the X-Men were not soldiers – not in the standard sense. He'd assembled the team to help him in his fight, but they were not soldiers. Soldiers were expendable.

* * *

Xavier had a tough decision to make. He knew the importance of de-escalating the conflict, of keeping tabs on both sides to ensure no further blood was shed. He also knew full well the personal cost of failure on his part – Storm's nephew Evan, a former student of his, had chosen a life with the Morlocks. He owed it to Storm, to Evan, to keep them safe from the increasingly violent Purifiers.

He wondered how far the Cajun's strange allegiance to Storm would hold. She had been oddly hesitant when questioned about the nature of their relationship, and she flat-out refused to tell him how she'd gotten knowledge of his more . . . colorful exploits. An unusual move for the normally candid, unapologetic Goddess. He toyed with the idea that they'd enjoyed a romantic liaison, discarding it after careful observation of the two. They seemed more like brother and sister than lovers; the unrepentant thief seemed to think of her as a little sister – someone to tease, to comfort, to protect. Oddly enough, Storm seemed to accept, even welcome, the man's brotherly attentions. There was definitely more to the two of them than met the eye; he made a note to do some digging in New Orleans; surely a man as _distinctive_ as Remy LeBeau would have left a trail. Even if the man did manage to blend seamlessly into the background, moving through shadow like stealth was a secondary mutation.

He sighed, clearing his mind as he heard the slight tap at his study door.

"Come in, Rogue."

Xavier comforted himself with the fact that his voice was just as calm and reassuring as it always was. His twice-weekly sessions with the Southern teen weighed on him. His guilt warred with anger, his fear with faint hope. The sight of her settling herself in one of the overstuffed chairs, arranging herself nervously – gloved hands smoothing her clothing carefully, reflexively – that sight, and the knowledge that she no longer really needed those gloves, that carefully maintained layer of clothing she wore like armor, stirred up the guilt. And the anger. He knew she would no sooner consider going without the gloves than she would consider going without a shirt. For an all-too-brief interlude after she'd taken the Cure, she'd been . . . not happy, but open to give happiness a chance. The gloves never disappeared completely, but for a time she had seemed not to _need_ them. There had been a glow about her, as though she was finally – after so long – at peace. Even after Hank had broken the news to her that the Cure might not be permanent, she had held onto that peace, that faint ray of hope.

Xavier had seen that peace shattered. Her walls were back up, and he feared that she was once again trapped in her own self-fulfilling prophecy. With her mutation weakened, kicking in intermittently, he was confident that if she focused her efforts she could gain at least some measure of control over her power, but she saw only failure. His failures, and her own. Even the Cure had failed to provide her with any semblance of a normal life; its effects were slowly beginning to wear off, leaving her to deal with the reality of giving up once again that which she held most dear.

This time, though, it would be different. Because he had faith in her strength, and in Hank's science, and because it just had to be different. He couldn't fail her twice.

She was fidgeting slightly, watching him curiously as her fingers tugging idly at the hem of her gloves. Waiting for him to begin with the usual meditation exercise. A rough knock at the door caught his attention, dispelling his morose thoughts.

Wolverine entered without waiting for an invitation, as usual, with Beast trailing behind apologetically. Xavier smiled as Logan made himself comfortable, lounging carelessly in the big leather chair. His hand strayed briefly to the unlit cigar tucked over his ear, the slight gesture revealing his confident act to be just that – an act. Logan was nervous, and understandably so.

"Logan, Hank – thank you for joining us."

Rogue twitched nervously at the realization that they were here for her session. She didn't have long to wonder why.

"Rogue, Logan has volunteered for an experiment. Now hear me out," he admonished her gently, quieting her before she could protest. "You are at a crossroads, Rogue. We have no reason to believe that your powers won't make a full recovery, based on reports of other mutants who have regained their abilities after having been exposed to the Cure. At this point in time, though, it seems that your powers are in partial remission."

Xavier turned to Hank, who had remained standing, hovering attentively behind Logan.

"Yes, yes – I've done extensive sequencing on the samples from you and from several other mutants who had been affected by the Cure. I used myself and Logan as a control, and by examining the baseline mRNA EST's and taking from that your cDNA, and comparing the expressed fragments to –"

Hank stopped his explanation when he saw Rogue's eyes glaze over. Logan was staring fixedly at him as though he were analyzing his weaknesses, considering how to take him down. But then, Logan stared at just about everyone that way. Still, it never failed to make him a bit . . . edgy.

"Er, suffice it to say that Xavier and I believe that the Cure has fundamentally disrupted the activation mechanism of your mutation. When I ran sequences on you before, you would show no difference in gene expression after you had used your powers, indicating that whatever it is that drives your power was always on. My recent sequences indicate that this is no longer the case."

Rogue bit her lip, her brown furrowing as she considered what he'd just told her. "Ain't that cause this Cure is inhibiting whatever it is that makes me tick?"

Hank and Xavier exchanged a significant look. At Xavier's slight nod, Hank cleared his throat nervously. "We think that the Cure has already cleared your system. As of several weeks ago, I've been unable to locate the virus' genetic signature in any of your expressed genes."

Rogue stared at him in shock. Her mind was buzzing with questions at the revelation. _When were you going to tell me? Why aren't my powers back?_ Her frazzled brain seized upon the most immediate of her concerns. "What's Logan here for?"

"I'm your guinea pig, Stripes," he said gruffly, shifting slightly in his chair.

"That's funny, you look more like a badger," she said, her eyes widening slightly as she realized what she just said. Out loud.

Hank stifled a laugh with a large, furry hand, moving out of range of the Wolverine's claws. You could never be too careful, after all.

Logan smiled, a grim twinkle in his hard eyes. "Keep laughing, Stripes. I'll see you in the Danger Room tomorrow."

Rogue swallowed nervously. "What am Ah supposed ta do?"

"I want you to focus on turning your power on," Xavier said gently, tasting the bitter irony. How many times had he asked her to do just the opposite, in that same quiet, soothing tone?

"But Ah don't want mah powers on!"

"That is precisely my point."

Xavier waited while she worked out his meaning, the confusion in her eyes slowly overtaken by a desperate realization.

"You think – you think Ah already have control?"

"It is a possibility that I'd like to test," he admitted, trying to keep his voice even. "That is why I've asked Logan to volunteer his services."

"But what about –"

"You were understandably perturbed when Colossus fell through the ceiling of the women's locker room, and it is my belief that your powers switched on to compensate. After all, it's not every day a nude metal man comes crashing down on you in the shower – even around here."

Rogue blushed at the memory. She knew firsthand that it wasn't Piotr's fault. Pyro had been instigating a towel fight, and he'd gotten Piotr good, raising a nasty welt on his backside. When Colossus had powered up, his weight had proved too much for the shower floor, and he'd ended up in Rogue's lap. And in her head.

_At least I know I'm not just a powerless schizo_. She wondered if Xavier had heard that thought. Rogue had been worried when the Cure hadn't taken the voices, leaving her trapped in her own head with the dozens of personalities she'd absorbed. After all, she wasn't a mutant any longer, and they had padded rooms for people with more than one personality in their heads.

_What if I don't want this?_

"Whether you want it or not, your powers will not stay dormant forever – Piotr is proof enough of that. If you can overcome your fear, your doubt . . ."

Xavier knew he was pushing her, but it was the one thing he'd never tried. He'd always left her in her comfort zone, taking care the make sure that she wasn't scared, that she wouldn't hurt herself – or anyone else. He could see now that it had been the wrong approach; everything he'd done, every day that went by had simply compounded the problem, etching the fear and doubt further and further into Rogue's psyche. It was that crippling fear that had kept control from her grasp. She **knew** that her skin was dangerous, and it was that very knowledge – deeper than fact or faith or even instinct, carved into her bones and imprinted on her soul – that made it so.

Against his better judgment, Xavier gave her a push. More of a nudge, really, hardly anything to speak of. Just enough to get her out of her chair and headed in the right direction.

Rogue found herself on her feet, slowly advancing on Logan. She didn't remember having taken her gloves off, but a quick glance back at her chair revealed them arranged neatly over the padded arm. What if she absorbed him? What if she didn't? That last thought sent a giddy wash of nerves jolting through her. She wanted control . . . right? No, there was no question. There could be no question, no doubt in her mind. She needed control. The Cure was only temporary, but it had given her a chance. Like pressing a reset button.

_I can do this._

She wasn't sure what she was psyching herself up for. It was such a grotesque juxtaposition, being instructed to turn her mutation on. She was terrified that it wouldn't work, and even more terrified that it would. She trusted Xavier with her life – Logan, too, for that matter, but she still felt her stomach twist as she tried to focus on turning her gift, her cursed skin, on.

Logan could hear her heart pounding in her chest, her breaths short and labored. She was inching closer as though terrified he'd attack; she smelled of fear and a welter of other emotions, but the fear was overwhelming.

"Easy, Stripes, I'm not gonna bite you," he said soothingly. At least, it was meant to be soothing. She started convulsively when he spoke, his low, raspy voice grating across her nerves.

"Not worried about you hurting me," she whispered, so quietly he was barely able to pick out her words, even with his enhanced senses.

She froze, her hand a few inches from his, her eyes wide. Logan watched her carefully, gauging her mental state; with a mental shrug, he leaned over and took her hand in his.

His eyes widened to match hers as he held her small hand, still watching her carefully. He could hear the ancient clock on the mantel ticking off the seconds, each swing of the pendulum thunderously loud. It seemed he could actually hear time slow down, and he felt her hand tremble in his.

And then he felt it. That unforgettable sensation of being ripped from oneself, of freezing and tearing and spinning.

Rogue squeaked when she felt it, that pull that she both feared and desperately needed. She tried to pull back, to apologize – they always seemed so feeble, her apologies, when she had always known full well the havoc even the faintest brush of her skin could wreak – but Logan was having none of it, his hand closing over hers even as his knees weakened.

"Logan, let me go!"

His eyes glinted stubbornly as he stared her down, willing her to turn it off. She wondered if this was his idea, or Xavier's. _Only one way out_. She clamped her eyes shut, trying to block out the sensation of absorption, the feel of his hand over hers – he was hurting her a little, but not nearly as much as she was hurting him. She blanked her mind out, ignoring all distractions, and focused on turning it off. But he was there, in her head, and he would not be ignored. Logan was fire and untamed fury, his psyche crowding into hers, dominating by its very presence.

Her eyes snapped open. This wasn't working, she'd been crazy to agree to this. Logan was slumped over in his chair, gasping for breath, his eyes still focused on her, his hand still wrapped around her wrist. She bit her lip as she jerked free of his grip, stumbling back and sprawling on the floor with the force of her movement; it was an indication of how much of him she'd already managed to take, that she was able to do that.

"You gotta stop running sometime, Stripes."

Rogue couldn't tell if the voice was in her head or if Logan was actually speaking to her. She could feel her world tilt crazily, his thoughts rampaging through her head. It always seemed to strange to her, that the other person never got any small portion of her in return. She took so much – though the shade in her head was devoid of the spark that defined a person, it was in all other respects a complete copy of the soul she'd absorbed, in some instances even capable of independent thought. She took so much, and never gave in return. Her desires, her hopes and her dreams, her past – Wolverine had no more access to her that he had any of the other X-Men, and yet with a mere thought, she could sift through the morass of memories and impulses, instincts and emotions that was the Wolverine.

She knew him better than any lover could, better than he knew himself. But she could never share that in return, would never let anyone into her head they way she could get into theirs.

Rogue took a deep breath, forcing herself to concentrate, to regain control of her senses. Of instincts that screamed at her to run, to fight, to lash out at her tormentors. A sharp pain at her knuckles, the clean slice of bone through the delicate skin, brought her back to reality. She could hear Xavier in her head, soothing her and calling to her, and Dr. McCoy in the distance.

* * *

_What did you expect would happen?_

His own conscience taunted him. He'd known the risk – to both of them – yet he'd willingly do it again. He couldn't afford to play it safe, couldn't afford another failure. For her sake, or for his own.

Hank had insisted on keeping Rogue overnight in the Medical Lab, for observation. Her mind had been scrambled by the brief contact, a vortex of conflicting emotions.

Still, Xavier couldn't help being pleased at Logan's performance. For a split second, he could have sworn she'd managed to stop the flow of power, but then she'd jerked free of him. He was fine, of course; a little shaken by their failure, but he was back to his normal cantankerous self in no time. It wasn't a complete failure – she had managed to call up her powers.

Turning them off, on the other hand …

Xavier frowned, considering his options. He needed to be aggressive, but perhaps there was a way to engage Rogue without frightening her. His own powers were useless – he could control her mind, but she'd have no access to the knowledge, the power she'd gained while under his control. No, he'd need a subtler coercion, if he was to succeed.

He made a mental note to talk to Storm, to see how far she trusted the mutant who called himself Gambit. He resolved to do some digging for himself; perhaps it was time to call in a few favors.

* * *

Chaos. Her dreams were sharp and fragmented, a broken mirror shattered beyond repair; she was haunted by nightmarish visions, memories that were and weren't hers: a crude underground laboratory, the sickening stench of hot metal searing into flesh and bone, drowning out the snowy steppes and the wide, lazy river; the thrill of the hunt overshadowing the thrill of her first kiss, and then pain and death and blood – so much blood. Sometimes it was her own, and sometimes . . . over and over she watched her lover die at the hands of the monster. That nameless dark figure; she could remember the stench of him, taste his fear as her claws sunk into him, feel the spray of his blood across her face and the crunch of his bone under her fist.

It was cold; she could feel the cool intrusion of the IV needle, cold even under her skin as the icy fluid seared through her veins. The monitors beeped and blinked in time with her vitals, but it registered not a blip as she tensed, scanning the small room for any signs of life.

She wasn't bound, and there were no guards; a surprising omission, but not one she was about to protest. Even her handlers made mistakes. Not often, to be sure, but she supposed the fact that they usually didn't live to regret any lapses in vigilance had something to do with that.

The claws hurt when they came out, but it was a welcome pain. She was used to pain. It gave her focus. Focus she'd be needing if she wanted to get out; they couldn't kill her, but they could cage her. And she needed to be free, if she was going to have her revenge.

_Creed_.

She had her target. The monitor sounded a low, flat tone as she ripped out the IV, sweeping the sensors from her body; she silenced the machine with a deft swipe of her claws before padding silently down the darkened hallway.

* * *

Author's Note (part the second): _Dun dun dun!_ Read and review - I promise Romy next chapter! 


	5. Chapter 5

**Curiosity**

**Chapter 5: Pandora Complex**

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters involved – Marvel does. I'm just engaging in wild flights of fancy, for fun and not for profit. Please don't sue.

Author's Note: I'm going to be delving a little deeper into Rogue's head in this chapter. Which is fun to write, because she's not the only one in her head right now. I'm writing her as "she" even though Logan is . . . not in charge, but definitely right now the overwhelming vote in a weird sort of duality/democracy. Also, I'm taking the opportunity to get Remy's POV out there, and sort of set the groundwork for their interactions.

Also, note that the story is rated R (M). This chapter is one of the reasons. If you don't care to read foul language, violence, or moderately graphic depictions of ahem encounters (flashbacks, really), don't read. Although, the story involves Remy, so I think the "graphic depiction" should probably go without saying . . .

Another quick note. I've been struggling with this chapter, because I want to fit so much in, so I've decided to introduce a narrative device to sort of separate Remy's POV from Rogue's – they each have their own lead-in, but the middle section of this chapter will have Rogue's POV written in **bold**, and Remy's POV will be unadulterated text (as will the omniscient POV, which should in and of itself make it obvious whose POV is being adopted at any given point).

This looks to be a long one, so without further ado, I present the story.

* * *

She made her way stealthily through the darkened corridors, instinct and years of training taking over and guiding her as she avoided the security cameras. She knew this place, knew every turn and every door, but she couldn't say from where in her fragmented memories she knew it; with a final glance behind her to make sure she wasn't followed, she disabled the main alarm, the 10-digit code another tidbit she couldn't quite place. 

She'd been heading unerringly toward the garage, drawn by the scent of rubber and oil and sweat – it smelled like freedom; as she slipped into the room, a stray beam of light glinted enticingly off of metal and paint. As her night vision adjusted to the almost complete lack of light, she saw it. It was standing a little apart from the rest, as though it were too good to associate itself with the mundane machinery littering the vast room, and the faint ambient light slid lovingly over its sleek curves. She threaded her way through the clutter, skirting past a slightly beat-up Skyline without a second glance, stoically ignoring the candy-colored lineup of Italian sports cars.

Too flashy. The bike, on the other hand . . . it crouched menacingly in the corner, all gleaming black paint and anodized metal. No flashy, garish chrome on this Harley; the Dark Custom was all business, from the straight-shot exhaust to the inverted fork telescopic front suspension to the v-twin engine mounted squarely at the heart of the beast. It was perfect. (1)

She smiled, a cold smile filled with promise. She was almost out, and once she was free . . .

* * *

Remy was glad of his trench coat as he leaned against the garret, using the structure to break the chill evening breeze. Indian summer meant warmth while the sun shone but now, underneath the stars, fall was announcing its arrival. 

He twirled an unlit cigarette between his fingers; the view from the roof of Xavier's mansion was spectacular, but it wasn't the stars set in the night sky like brilliant jewels that had him preoccupied. Not for the first time, he wondered what he was doing in upstate New York. Or rather, what he was still doing here. Storm was family, pure and simple – closer, even, than the family he was so eager to avoid at the present. But there was more than that. Was it guilt? It was not an emotion that would normally be ascribed to the unrepentant thief. Was it defiance? It was dangerous for him in the states. He knew that the Assassins' reach extended well beyond New Orleans, and it was a sure bet that the man-eating bitch-on-wheels leading the Guild still had a price out on him.

He should know; he'd been engaged to the bitch. His lips quirked in a bitter smile at his own expense. Belladonna Boudreaux had personally taken out the warrant; he'd seen it, or rather a copy of it. She'd scrawled a note across the bottom, in her own bold script. He could see where the pen had gouged into the paper with the force of her rage, even through the bad photocopy.

_**Extremely dangerous. Bounty tripled if he's alive and **__**intact**__**. -- BB**_

The Assassins weren't kidnappers, often viewing the profession with open contempt. It was almost unheard of for her Guild to pick up a warrant with a DOA clause – Guild shorthand for dead or alive. The warrant issued for him practically guaranteed that whoever picked it up would try to take him "alive and intact".

She had plans for him . . . plans that apparently required that he was "intact". Knowing her, he might even enjoy some of them.

His fingers strayed to his throat, unconsciously tracing the lines of the scars that by all rights should decorate his throat. He smirked at the memory, leaning back and taking a deep drag from the cigarette he hadn't even realized he'd lit. He'd certainly enjoyed that encounter – most of it, anyway; she was a control freak, no doubt about that, and he'd gone along with it when she'd handcuffed him to her bed. He'd laughed at the gesture, knowing how easily he could free himself of the restraints, and it had turned him on a little – well, a lot, actually – when she'd turned the tables on him and taken control. He had enjoyed the juxtaposition. The knife she'd pressed to his throat, on the other hand . . . call him a masochist, but he might have enjoyed that, too, had circumstances been a little different.

It was only natural, he supposed, given his unusual choice of profession. Danger was practically a way of life – he wouldn't be any kind of a thief if he didn't revel in the thrill of the pinch, the adrenaline high after a particularly dangerous job. But Belladonna took it way beyond a little thrill, a little danger to get the blood pumping and the heart racing. It was all about control with that one; she'd held the razor-sharp blade to his throat, daring him to move while she teased him mercilessly.

She had certainly enjoyed making him squirm, delighting in his frustration as the cool steel at his wrists and his throat brought him up short again and again. The dark gleam in her eyes as she toyed with him, provoking him . . . he shuddered. She'd marked him that night, in more ways than one. Only the razor-sharpness of her blade had saved him from scarring; he'd explained away the cuts as a shaving accident, ignoring Henri's incredulous stare ("Y'shavin' in de dark wit' a rusty chainsaw, now, _mon ami_?").

No, he corrected himself. He'd seen the cool, calculating hate in her icy blue eyes when he'd left, and he very much doubted he'd enjoy anything she had planned for him.

A stray shadow caught his eye, distracting him from his maudlin thoughts. Belladonna might as well be worlds away; even if she knew he was back in the states, she'd still have to catch him. And he sure as hell wasn't going down without a fight.

His glowing eyes scanned the country darkness; the new moon was little help, but then he'd never needed help to see at night. Someone was walking a bike – a Harley, unless he missed his guess – along the driveway toward the main gate. He smiled, sliding down the storm gutter and landing lightly on his feet, fifty feet below. He recognized that unruly mass of auburn hair shot with silver. She was obviously trying to sneak out, waiting until well clear of the mansion to start the engine of the bike.

He realized, as he slipped into the shadows after her, that he didn't even know her name.

_What's a name, after all . . . she's up to no good, and she obviously knows her bikes. We're practically made for each other._

* * *

He'd lost sight of her when he went to retrieve his own bike; he figured there was really only one direction she'd be headed, and he gunned his bike along the deserted country road, negotiating the treacherous curves and steep hills with a reckless _joie de vie._

**The wind rushing over her face, whistling past her, running its icy fingers through her hair; the dull, distinctive roar of the engine, half sound and half visceral feeling, drowning out anything and everything but her and the bike and the road. That nagging feeling of being followed was gone. With a twist of her wrist, the world dissolved around her, blurry and indistinct, as she rocketed along the windy country road at breakneck speed. She was focused on her objective, her mind far from the perils her situation would have presented to mere mortals; for somehow, she knew every curve and bump in the road, knew every twist and turn and gravel-strewn trap, just as she knew that nothing could harm her – not for long. She was invincible, and she was free, and she would soon have her revenge.**

He reached town – such as it was – without overtaking her. Either she rode that Harley like a bat out of hell, or she hadn't come this way at all. There had been no turnoffs, no intersections on that back road. It seemed the Professor valued his privacy.

With a mental shrug, he kicked his bike into gear and headed off to have some fun of his own. Bayside was a small town; he hadn't cased it on his way in, but it was no different than any other small town America – there was a good side of town, and a bad side of town. Remy preferred the amenities offered by the latter. He found what he was looking for nestled in between a rickety structure that he supposed was a warehouse and a dilapidated railway station (predictable). A battered sign that he didn't bother to read swayed lazily in the breeze as he ducked into the seedy bar. It was dimly lit and none too clean; a surprising number of people were huddled around the ancient TV at the end of the bar, but the place was by no means crowded.

**She eased back on the throttle as she approached the small town. Creed was scum, and they tended to gravitate toward their own. He wouldn't be found here, in this cookie-cutter version of Small Town America, but she'd surely find someone who could put her onto his trail. She gave in to the riotous clamor in her head, letting experience guide her; whose experience it was, she couldn't say, but that was a trivial concern. These small towns were all the same; she found the railroad tracks without difficulty. **

He couldn't say what impulse had led him to follow her, and he was a little put out that he had lost her. Maybe he was getting soft. He needed a drink. Experience told him he wouldn't find clarity at the bottom of a bottle, but he'd settle for being too drunk to care. He was out of his mind, to even consider coming back to the states, not to mention working with amateurs, and here he was, following – trying to follow – a slip of a girl whose name he didn't even know. A girl who, thus far, seemed to be immune to his not-inconsiderable charms.

_Maybe she's into girls._ Fortunately, no one saw his eyes flare as he considered the possibility. He slid into a dark booth, motioning for the waitress.

"Bourbon, darlin'" he said, turning on the charm and catching her before she could speak. The accent in these parts grated on his nerves, perhaps even more so after the brief taste of home he heard earlier. Mississippi, if he wasn't mistaken.

_Dieu_, he had it bad. It wasn't normal, for him to be so hung up over a girl. Maybe he was just homesick. It had been too long since he'd breathed the lazy New Orleans air, thick with swamp and spice and an intoxicating, indefinable something, a promise of anything else a man could possibly want. These Yankees couldn't cook properly – and forget the crazy ideas they had about American food overseas; he hadn't had a decent gumbo in a dog's age. His mouth watered just thinking about it. He could almost taste it, and a flood of other memories came rushing back with it.

**A swipe of her claws silenced the alarm. Had she always had claws? No matter . . . they disappeared with a thought, the faintest twitch of muscles she hadn't realized she had; the skin at her knuckles knitted together seamlessly, fast as thought, only a tell-tale smear of crimson marking the pale skin. She moved quickly, navigating a maze of leather and Kevlar, finding her size. She knew her size, didn't she? There were many answers to that question, but only one rang true. The black leather seemed to suck the light from her pale skin as she pulled the pants up, adjusting them over her hips with a quick shimmy and lacing up the sides. **

**A splash of color caught her eye, an oasis of pink and rhinestones amid the sea of black leather.**

**Ignoring the momentary impulse – was it hers? Surely not – she slipped into a sturdy, unremarkable jacket that was armored in all the right places and headed for the boots. She chose a pair with an aggressive, spiky heel, ignoring the growl at the back of her head; boots weren't meant to be practical . . . were they?**

**She stopped in the act of pulling on a pair of gloves, frozen in place, conflicted; she frowned, her thoughts straying to the blood staining her knuckles. No gloves, she decided. The decision made her slightly uneasy, and she felt as though her fingers were craving the feel of gloves with a memory all their own. She ignored that impulse, too, as she stepped through the broken glass, dropping the half-fingered biking gloves with a brief pang of loss. Time was wasting.**

The waitress distracted him, returning with his bourbon; she made a point of leaning over him to set the tumbler in front of him. Remy smiled appreciatively at her, taking in the view with a smirk. She was younger and cleaner than he would have expected for a place like this; point of fact, she looked barely old enough to be handling the alcohol. She was asking for trouble with that barely-there outfit . . . not that you'd hear him complaining.

"_Merci_, darlin'," he murmured, trailing a finger lightly up her arm and watching her try to ignore the effect he had on her.

"Let me know if there's anything else I can get you," she said, a little out of breath.

"Y'can jus' keep dese comin, darlin'." She smiled, more than a little flustered, before heading back to the bar.

He sighed. He'd heard worse in the way of accents, but she was definitely prettier when she wasn't talking. Still, he knew a more than a few tricks, and he'd be willing to bet he could make her forget the English language entirely; he needed a diversion, and she certainly seemed willing. He swirled the bourbon thoughtfully in the clouded glass tumbler before tossing it back with a grimace. It was bitter, definitely an inferior blend, and he was glad he hadn't sipped slowly.

**She found what she was looking for in the warehouse district, a run-down bar that redefined the word "seedy". There were more then a few bikes lined up in front, mostly big, chromed-out Harleys, and all of them scrupulously clean and scratch-free. That spelled trouble . . . but then, she was looking for trouble. One in particular caught her eye, a sleek, black sportbike with red trim. The only Japanese machine in the dusty parking lot. **

**She shrugged it off, noting the battered sign above the entrance; it did not display the name of the establishment (these places usually didn't display a name, but were known to their select clientele simply as "the bar").**

_**Forget the shirt and shoes, no freaks**_

**She smiled a grim smile. She'd definitely find what she was looking for here, and she doubted any of the patrons would balk at giving up information on a "freak" like Creed – or anyone he happened to be associating with.**

He was on his fifth drink, and well on his way to intoxicated, when a familiar flash of auburn and platinum caught his eye. She hadn't seen him; he reached out and caught her wrist as she passed by, twirling her around and pulling her to face him.

His clever remark died on his tongue, and he gaped at her mutely. She'd changed outfits, having opted for head-to-toe black leather. It was a good look on her; his eyes raked her over, taking in the stiletto-heeled boots, the form-fitting leather pants that clung lovingly to every curve, and the black motorcycle jacket, unzipped to show a considerable amount of cleavage wrapped in a paper-thin black tank top.

"Why're ya followin' me, thief?"

She pulled at her wrist, frowning in irritation when he only tightened his grip to pull her in closer, shifting to bracket her with his legs.

"Jus' mindin' m'own business, havin' a drink," he smiled, turning on the charm and reaching out to her with his empathy. He frowned; she'd been a dizzying jumble when he'd read her before, but now he found only focused rage, threaded through with irritation. At him, no doubt. Nothing there for him to work with . . .

Yet.

His eyes flared, glowing like coals in the deep shadows, and she softened momentarily, her frown easing, the tension in her fame subsiding. She was still pulling at her wrist, but it was a half-hearted, token gesture.

"Why don' y'relax, cherie? Sit down and have a friendly drink?"

She smiled down at him, a wicked, knowing smile that set his blood on fire, her eyes sparkling and hard like emeralds as she stepped closer. "Why doncha let go of my wrist, and go crawling back to your swamp, Cajun," she purred, leaning over so her lips almost brushed his ear. He swallowed thickly as he felt her breath hot against his neck.

"And if I don'? Seems to me like y'breakin' curfew here, darlin', not to mention the dress code." She frowned in confusion, her brilliant eyes clouding for a moment, echoing an abrupt shift in her emotions.

His eyes widened as he felt her booted heel come to rest between his legs, the firm pressure against his groin a not-so-gentle request.

"You don't let me go, swamp rat, and I'll be breaking something else." She punctuated the threat with a twist of her boot, smiling as he winced and shifted under her.

_Looks like she wants to play_.

He stared up at her, fixing those luminous green eyes with his own glowing red embers, letting himself smirk as he felt her waver under his hypnotic stare, the barest shift of her taut frame as she edged closer.

She was curious.

A faint _snikt_, barely audible above his own pounding heart, was all the warning he had before he found three steel blades at his throat.

"You heard the lady." The voice at his ear was little more than a feral snarl.

Remy dropped her wrist, staring into her deep jade eyes as she backed away – but not without a final, vicious twist of her heel.

"Just where do you think you're going, Stripes?"

**Rogue shook her head, trying to clear the fog that shrouded her brain. The Cajun had let her go – how had he followed her here? – but she had bigger problems. She needed to move quickly if she was going to have any hope of getting her information.**

Remy's eyes bugged out as she continued walking, ignoring the mutant who still held Remy pinned to the bench with his adamantium claws. He remembered the man; Ororo had introduced him to the entire senior staff. None of their reactions had been precisely friendly, but this one . . . Remy had met his share of dangerous men, and this one topped them all.

**She knew the man with the adamantium claws, probably better than he knew himself. She frowned. Her thoughts were blurry, and she knew it wasn't just the red-eyed thief that had her flustered. She felt her control slipping, and her world shifted dizzyingly.**

"Stay here, Cajun," he growled, not bothering to sheathe those claws as he followed her.

Remy watched, riveted, as the man stalked up behind her, spinning her to face him. He tossed the rest of the bourbon down when he noticed that the two of them had already managed to attract the wrong sort of attention. Two large men in matching leather vests had slid off their bar stools, grabbing pool cues and moving to surround the pair.

"**Logan . . ." **

**She knew the man – knew his name, and his deepest secrets.**

**He was angry; she could sense it – smell it – feel it in the tension of his hand on her shoulder. His claws were still out, glinting evilly at the edge of her vision. She could tell that he was worried, too, but she didn't have time to dwell on that. She felt them just a fraction of a second after he did, the two toughs circling them warily, and she knew what the situation must look like.**

He slid out of the booth, casually slipping his bo staff out of its sheathe and extending it with a smooth, well-practiced gesture. The bartender saw it too; you didn't survive in a place like this very long if you couldn't see the fights before they started. Remy snatched a fork off of an empty table, sending it flying toward the man with a deft flick of his wrist; the fork brushed the man's ear before embedding itself in the wall behind him with a muted _thwok_, stopping the man short as he reached for the shotgun that was no doubt hidden beneath the bar.

The man's eyes met his, startlement turning to fear as he stared down the devil's own blazing red orbs. He wisely backed off, his hands raised appeasingly.

**She slipped into a fighting stance, moving without thought, her back to the Wolverine. Someone fired off a shotgun – she could smell the black powder, mixing with the cigarette smoke, and it excited her. As if the shot was their signal, the two toughs attacked. Her claws were out before she could think, and she sliced through the hardwood pool cue, the impact jarring the bones of her wrist. And then suddenly, the sound of glass breaking, the scent of wood burning, and the entire bar joined in the fray.**

And then, quicker than he could blink, all hell broke loose. _Dieu_, but he'd been missing a good fight. The need to lay low, even while abroad, had forced him to even out his famously hot temper. Remy barely ducked the shotgun blast, tucking and rolling with expert ease. Had there been someone else behind the bar? He couldn't remember; pulling out a card, he charged it until it just barely glowed, and tossed it toward the bar. By itself, it was just barely enough to make a pop and a spark, but he aimed for the booze; he ducked again at the sound of glass shattering, the high-proof liquors igniting as they spilled out across the bar and the floor.

Perfect. That should distract the bartender. He turned his attention to the real fight, casually sweeping a rather inebriated older man off his feet with his bo staff as he waded into the fray – a trucker, unless he missed his guess. The man went down hard; he wouldn't be getting back up anytime soon.

Remy dodged a flying chair, cursing fervently as he slipped in a puddle of beer; most of the bar was now involved in the fight, and he could hear Wolverine swearing, in between the obligatory battle cries of "filthy mutie!" and "freak!" The bar was grittier than he'd thought, given the number of people willing to jump into a fight with a man sporting 13" adamantium claws.

_Mebbe we just stumbled in on a recruitin' session for de Purifiers. _

Remy could see Wolverine, now, and the girl, both almost within reach. What had he called her? Stripes? Must be some kinda nickname. They were fighting back-to-back, moving in perfect synchrony – it was like watching a dance, or an over-choreographed Hollywood fight scene. He almost lost his footing again when he saw that the girl had unsheathed her own set of claws and was laying into her opponent with a savage ferocity. Her claws were duller, lacking the reflective metallic sheen of the Wolverine's, but it seemed they did no less damage. He watched in awe as she sliced cleanly through a baseball bat in mid-swing, dicing it into small cross-sections with no apparent effort.

Yep, he really knew how to pick 'em.

**She ducked the bar stool, elbowing the man sharply in the stomach and kicking his feet out from under him. Bar stool? She was losing it; she had to focus – she had to get information . . . She caught motion out of the corner of her eye and she spun, almost losing her footing on the slick hardwood floor. Why on earth was she wearing stiletto heeled boots? **

He went down as a chair splintered across his back; that would teach him to let a girl distract him in the middle of a fight. Remy slipped as he stood, diving to the floor to avoid another clumsy blow with the chair. He swore as the hem of his trench coat dragged through the unspeakably foul mix of fluids staining the floor, rolling to his feet and clotheslining a short, bald man brandishing a broken beer bottle.

**She felt a sickening crunch as her fist collided with bone, the man's nose shattering under the force of the blow, and she felt a tug, the barest tingle as her fingers pressed against his skin. She braced herself against a wave of nausea, fighting to stay centered, to stay in control. **

He twirled his staff in front of him, lashing out as he spun to take down the only remaining obstacle standing between him and the other mutants. Remy looked around – it seemed the bartender had managed to put out most of the flames, but was nowhere in sight; he'd probably fled. Most of the rest of the bar – people and furniture alike – was lying crumpled on the floor. He could see the radius of destruction extending out from the other two mutants, with the greatest destruction at the center of that circle. He whistled in appreciation; they'd managed all of this in little more than the time it took him to set the bar on fire. As far as he could tell, everyone was still breathing, but they certainly hadn't won over any friends to the mutant cause.

The Wolverine retracted his claws, surveying the scene as though daring any of the fallen to get back up.

"Time to leave," he growled, pulling the girl along behind him. She was shaking and stumbling, her eyes wide with a bewildering array of emotions. Gone was the cool, cold-blooded killer he'd seen earlier, replaced by a scared teenager who'd found herself in over her head. "You comin', Cajun?"

He realized he was staring, frozen in place with shock. He flipped his staff over, deftly telescoping it back in on itself and stowing it in its sheath as he stepped over a groaning form to follow them out.

* * *

"It was a mistake to place her in the Med Lab after her prolonged absorption of Logan." 

Logan frowned, looking not at all appeased by Hank's admission.

"I'm afraid I may have miscalculated further." Beast swallowed nervously as the Wolverine focused on him, cracking his knuckles idly. "I had placed her on a light sedative, as I did last time, when she had her … encounter … with Piotr." Hank would have sworn he saw Logan's eye twitch. He hadn't been thinking when he'd done it; sedating Logan was a Bad Idea, on par with chumming the waters and going for a swim with the sharks. His physiology tended to accelerate the metabolization of any drugs out of his system; he also had a healthy distaste for waking in strange places after having been drugged. He tended to snap into his own 'Nam, actually. If Logan was a dominating force in Rogue's mind when he'd done that – confused, disoriented, reeling from a combination of absorption and the sedative and waking up in the Med Lab . . . well, there was no if about it, actually. That was exactly what had happened, with near-disastrous results.

"But she's resting quietly now?" Xavier looked tired, his face drawn and haggard. He'd had a long, trying day.

Hank nodded in confirmation, keeping a wary eye on Logan. "She's back in her room. I ran a quick sequence on her, and it looks like she'd back to normal, more or less."

"More or less?"

Hank twitched as Logan chimed in. Growled in, to be more accurate. "She's switched on, again."

Neither Xavier nor Logan had anything to say to this proclamation.

"It could be a result of trauma. We did push her rather hard, and it can't have been pleasant to . . . to wake up under those circumstances."

"Speakin' of trauma, why'd you leave that sleazy Cajun thief alone with her?"

Xavier frowned, steepling his fingers. Logan knew that pose; it was a sign of Deep Thought, with capital letters, a sure indication that the Professor was conflicted. It was a conscious effort to keep his claws sheathed – Rogue was his, not in any romantic sense, but she was under his protection, and he'd failed her . . . in more ways than one.

"Logan, it appears the man has a … calming effect on her that I can't quite explain." He carefully refrained from mentioning his intentions to enlist the man's aid so that he could study his mutation until he _could_ explain it.

"Yeah, she looked real calm with him feelin' her up in that bar!" Logan snorted in disgust, storming out of the Xavier's office.

Xavier sighed, a deep sigh that spoke of too many worries.

"She knows she can do it, Xavier. We just have to show her the way." Were his thoughts so obvious? No, it had to be simply that Hank was torturing himself with the same doubts.

"I hope, for her sake, that you are right, Hank."

* * *

Kitty jumped slightly when she heard the door open. Jubilee had called her when Logan went after Rogue, and she'd been waiting up anxiously ever since. She and Rogue may appear to be polar opposites – one side of the room was decorated in pink and plastered with posters of the latest teen heart-throb, the other done in deep emerald and ruby and black, the posters of a darker, more disturbing variety – on the surface, they appeared so different, but they had developed an understanding of each other. More than that – they cared about each other. The petty squabbles over shopping and room décor and boys had only strengthened their strange bond. 

She was used to Rogue's dramatic outfits, but she still stared in shock when her roommate stepped in, looking somewhat the worse for wear.

"Oh my god, Rogue, are you alright? We were so worried about you! What is that you're – eeep!" Kitty cut off with a muted squeak as she saw the tall figure lurking in the doorway behind her roommate.

"Sorry,_petit_, didn' mean t'scare ya. Jus' makin' sure she got back t'her room safe an' sound."

Kitty giggled shyly, raking her fingers through her hair and ignoring Rogue's pointed stare. She didn't miss the intense look he gave Rogue as she pulled away from him, jerking free of his supportive grip with a huffy sigh.

"Good night and good riddance, Swamp Rat." She sounded exhausted, and more than a little annoyed – but that was fairly normal, for Rogue.

"G'night ladies . . . g'morning, really, I s'pose."

Kitty smiled up at him, mesmerized by those glowing red eyes, twirling her fingers through her hair. "Good night . . . thanks for looking after her." What was his name? She knew his name . . . Romy? No, that wasn't quite right. She was usually better with names, but this tall stranger was so distracting. Remy?

Dreamy was more like it. He practically oozed sex appeal, from the sensual line of his lower lip to his boyishly tousled hair, to the aloof confidence with which he carried himself. No question about it, the boy looked good – and he knew it.

"You still here Cajun? Git gone, already," Rogue grumbled sourly. "Don't need anyone to look after me."

"Not worried 'bout a li'l river rat like you, _cherie_. 'S everyone else m'worried 'bout."

He turned before she could retort, with a wink and a smirk for Kitty's eyes alone, striding off down the hallway.

Kitty was treated to the unusual sight of her roommate struggling for words. She sighed dreamily, sharing a moment of sympathy with Rogue's tongue-tied state before rounding on her roommate. "Alright, what's going on here? When did you and the new guy get so cozy?" She paused for a second, looking Rogue up and down. "And what the heck are you wearing?"

Rogue shrugged out of the jacket, flopping down on her bed with an exhausted groan. It seemed her night was far from over. Kitty was relentless when she got her teeth into something, and she knew she'd found something juicy to bite into.

* * *

They say dreams allow the mind to process and catalogue the day's experiences, to analyze and store a million scattered impressions and memories. They say dreams are the key to unlocking a person's fears and fantasies alike. That night, Rogue dreamed of fire, a glowing pair of haunting red eyes. 

She dreamed of blood and pain, twisting in her sleep as she ran from demons that were not hers to confront; she ran until even her dream-self tired, her tormentors always nipping at her heels, pressing her onward, driving her faster. The dreams were normal, if anything about this girl could be called normal. But she didn't wake screaming, drenched in her own sweat and tangled hopelessly in her own sheets; each time her unseen pursuers closed in on her, something warded them off, and she found herself enveloped in a protective shadow, bathed in an eerily familiar red glow.

* * *

(1) OK, it's probably obvious, but I like cars (and bikes), and I imagine that Xavier's garage would probably hold quite a few very cool cars, as well as the tools to fix them. As for the Harley, I'm not a huge fan of Harley's, but for some reason I think it fits Logan (she's hijacking his bike). The bike I'm describing is one of their Dark Customs, a Night Rod Special (because I think it **looks** the coolest of their "customs", it's got a solid, muscle-bound profile). For the purposes of this fic (and because I feel that all bikes should be ridiculously overpowered) I am going to assume that the bike has a bit more than the standard 125bhp under the figurative hood. Yes, I am a girl. Deal. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Curiosity**

**Chapter 6: Denial**

Disclaimer: The list of things which I do not own keeps getting longer. Marvel owns the characters (unfortunately, I do not own Remy LeBeau) I am not affiliated in any way with Marvel (though I do buy the comics) or any of the Marvel employees or creative staff.

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who's been following my story and reviewing, you guys make my day with those! Deadsnowwhite and lovestoread, gotta love the girl power (and yes, the bike is fairly drool-worthy!) Ishandahalf (i really liked seeing rogue go all biker-babe) – I loved writing that part. Seems like Remy's always got something clever to say, thought it would be nice and evil and fun to shut him up the old-fashioned way!

* * *

Something burned deep inside her, igniting a liquid fire that coursed through her veins. His eyes blazed with satisfaction as she moaned into his kiss, her body arching into his.

His mouth strayed to her neck as his fingers stroked down her hips, caressing her inner thighs, wringing a startled gasp from her ruby lips as he played with her, stoking the fire at her core.

"Remy," she whimpered, helpless against the passion he was igniting in her as she was engulfed in his heat and his desire.

"Hmm?"

Rogue started convulsively, sending the book flying across the room and nearly falling off her bed.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you! Whatcha reading?"

Kitty had a habit of phasing in and out of their shared room that was unsettling at best, and downright creepy at worst.

"Hey Rogue, I'm back!" Rogue gushed in a ruthless imitation of the other girl. "Hey, Kitty! How was your dance class?" Rogue continued the one-sided conversation, running right over the other girl's bubbly response. "Great! We all dressed up in pink and twirled around. It was, like, really girly! Tomorrow, I have a class on how to use a door so I don't scare the ever-loving stuffings out of my roommate!"

Kitty rolled her eyes; sharing a room with the Goth girl had its benefits, not the least of which being a certain level of immunity to her infamous tirades.

"I said I was sorry," she said lightly, stooping to hand Rogue the book she'd dropped. She nearly fell over laughing when she saw the lurid illustration gracing the cover of the careworn paperback. "Omigod, you're reading As I Lay Burning!?"

Rogue had been pursued by Sabertooth; abducted by Magneto and forced to absorb him in order to give her life powering his machine; she'd been in more tight spots than she could easily count, but she'd never wished that she could just disappear more than she did right now. Phase through the floor, like Kitty, or 'port out in a flash of fire and brimstone, like Kurt. Hell, she'd settle for simple invisibility, or maybe the ability to fly.

Kitty was still laughing, a few tears streaming down cheeks that were almost as red as Rogue's.

"Oh, I've got you now! You thought you like, totally had us fooled, with this bad-ass, mean-girl Goth thing you've got going! And you're, like, such a closet romantic!"

"Kitty. . ."

"You know, we should totally go see this new movie, _The Diary_, it's about this woman who writes in her diary looking for her true love, and it sends her the perfect man, but then –"

"Kitty!"

"Hmm?"

_Damage control, Rogue. Think quick_. The thought of sitting through a girlie movie with Kitty was … painful. But thankfully, Kitty had already moved on.

"Like, Jubilee is **so** going to flip when she hears you're reading Dyce St. John! (1) I'd have figured you were more of a Meljean Brooks kind of girl, all vampires and leather and doomed romance, and –"

"KITTY!" She could fix this. Think, damnit! Trying to pin down Kitty, though, was like trying to nail Jell-o to a wall.

"What!?"

"Check out page 42, might give you some ideas for your next date," Rogue said slyly, smirking at her perky roommate.

Kitty was staring at Rogue as though she'd sprouted another head.

"No? I've got a better idea. Next time ya sneak out with a boy when y're supposed to be at dance class, make sure all ya buttons are straight 'fore ya come sneakin' back home." Rogue winked at Kitty, slipping out of the room as Kitty inspected herself carefully in the full-length mirror.

She smiled softly to herself, filing that bit of information away for future use. She'd had her suspicions for a while, but Kitty had just handed her the proof on a silver platter. That guilty glance down had given it away – she hadn't even been wearing anything with buttons. She wondered how the girl had managed to keep it from Logan. The man had a nose like a bloodhound.

_Looks like intangibility has its benefits after all . . . stupid, useless vampire mutation_. Oh well; being caught reading Dyce St. John was almost worth the stunned look on Kitty's face. Rogue wondered who the lucky guy was; Kitty certainly had no shortage of admirers. Easy money was on Piotr Rasputin - for some reason Kitty seemed to have quite the thing for Bad Boys – but now that she thought about it, her brother had been spending an awful lot of time around her roommate.

She sighed. Now what was she going to do? She couldn't very well go back to her room – not for a while, anyway. So much for the book . . . and just when it was getting interesting. She'd picked it up on a whim, really – it was hardly the sort of book she usually read. She tried to tell herself she was drawn in by the plot (the beautiful maiden, kidnapped by the evil pirate, rescued then seduced by the rugged hero with blazing eyes). She wondered if the author had put together the plot using one of those magnet mad-lib poetry kits – probably the comic book version, based on what she'd read so far. If it wasn't nominally a historical romance, she'd have been sure the hero was a mutant.

At least she didn't have to worry about running into the Cajun thief; he'd been gone since the day after her . . . incident, taking Storm and Wolverine with him. That hadn't stopped him from showing up at her door the morning after. With breakfast. She winced at the phrase, even in her own mind. She knew his type – though obviously not from personal experience; the man fairly oozed sex, every caress of those hypnotic red-on-black eyes was designed to captivate, every word of his lilting Creole pidgin carefully calculated to charm. He even managed to make those damn clunky metal boots and that tight fuchsia muscle shirt look sexy.

Rogue growled in irritation as she tripped over a non-existent wrinkle in the hallway carpet, stumbling a few steps. She looked around self-consciously, relieved to see that – for once – no one had witnessed her embarrassment. Stupid Cajun wasn't even around and he was making her go all dreamy-eyed and distracted.

It was too bad Wolverine wasn't around for a good sparring session; she supposed the Danger Room sims would have to do, for now. She had some serious frustrations to work out.

* * *

Kitty stood speechless in front of her mirror, absently smoothing her hands over the sweater that needed no straightening and wondering just how much Rogue knew. She wasn't still in possession of Logan's abilities . . . was she? She'd seemed like she was back to normal – well, normal for Rogue anyway. But Kitty knew that it was different this time. The stakes were higher. Rogue had put up her walls, again, and they were higher than ever. She had been distant and withdrawn since the incident, hiding in her room and snapping at Kitty for no reason.

The thief was out on a mission for Xavier; he and Storm and Wolverine had been gone for almost a week, and Kitty was beginning to worry. Not about Remy and Ororo, and certainly not about Logan – the Cajun thief looked like he could take care of himself, and she knew very well that Storm could, and Wolverine didn't even bear mentioning. It was Rogue she was worried about. Of course, Jubilee herself was no picnic when Logan was gone on an extended mission (you'd think that having a near-immortal boyfriend whose healing powers had time and time again brought him back from far beyond "dead" would have calmed some of those anxieties, but Jubilee was a law unto herself).

Specifically, she was worried about Rogue's relationship with the Prince of Thieves. Kitty blushed to the roots of her hair when she remembered how she'd been staring at him. But as flattering as his attentions had been, it was clear he had eyes only for Rogue.

Rogue had been almost unforgivably rude to the man, practically shoving him out the door– and after he'd clearly gone out of his way to walk her to her room like a gentleman. He'd likely carried her at least part of the way, she mused enviously, remembering the way Rogue had wavered on her feet when she'd staggered into the room. Forget the fact that half the girls in the manor would kill to be in Rogue's shoes – pursued by the handsome, charming Southern thief – Rogue was making it obvious that she wanted nothing to do with him. She actually managed to seem insulted when he'd turned up at their door the next morning with a breakfast tray and a smile. OK, so it was pushing noon – who cares, when he looked the way he did, hair still tousled and eyes half-lidded with sleep?

Rogue had been far from forthcoming about what had happened in that bar, and about how she'd come to be dressed like a biker version of the chick from Underworld – but Kitty had seen her blush when she'd asked about the Cajun thief, so she knew there was more to it than Rogue was willing to admit. She knew Rogue was attracted to him; that was most definitely not the issue. She was just . . . afraid. Afraid of herself, and of all the things she'd convinced herself she'd never have.

At least she's reading the book Jubilee gave her. She smiled at the memory; Jubilee had developed quite a talent for – well, evil was the best word – since she'd started seeing Logan on the sly. She'd chosen the book to give to Rogue because the hero was conveniently named Remy. Kitty wasn't sure it would work the way Jubilee thought it would – although, Kitty heard Rogue mutter something that had sounded suspiciously like "Remy" when she'd phased into the room.

Kitty flipped through the book, stopping at page 42, her eyebrows climbing higher as she scanned the page. Well, now, wasn't that interesting . . . what were the odds that there was actually something good on that page? She turned the book sideways, cocking her head and trying to wrap her mind around the logistics. She supposed, if you were flexible . . .

Wait, that wasn't the point. The point was, Rogue was actually reading it. And apparently bookmarking some of the choicer passages for later perusal. Jubilee was going to have a field day. Kitty briefly considered the ramifications of disclosing this tidbit, especially given Rogue's almost uncanny insight into her most recent diversion of the male persuasion . . . but only briefly. Rogue was bluffing, she had to be – she had no proof of anything. And even if she did, this was simply too choice an opportunity to let pass her by.

* * *

"I t'ink dey're gone now, _homme_ . . . y'can put dose away now," Remy muttered, glancing at Logan's claws, gleaming faintly in the dim light of the tunnel.

Braver men than he would have been cowed by the look Logan shot him, but Remy wasn't about to back down. He kept his poker face, not even breaking stride even as the man growled something incomprehensible and most probably derogatory.

Storm shot him a sympathetic look, shrugging helplessly. Logan was what he was, a force of nature – it was pointless to try to tame him. That was part of why Remy had tapped him for this assignment – that unbridled ferocity, that unmistakably feral glint in his eye . . . this man was clearly dangerous, and Remy had used that threatening presence to bluff his way out of a fight. OK, so maybe it wasn't really bluffing when you held a trump card like the Wolverine – sorta like holding a royal flush, actually – but that didn't mean that everyone would have walked away unscathed if it had come down to a fight. Storm had helped too – her history with the Morlocks had become the stuff of legends, apparently, and that had played no small part in their reluctance to fight.

He smiled grimly. He may have won the battle, but the war was far from over; still, it was a small victory to make up for their earlier failure, and it meant they could go home, for a little while at least. Well, Storm and Wolverine were going home. Gambit would be headed back with them, to his guest room at the mansion – to rest, to strategize, and to wait for their next move. He quickened his step at the thought of a certain fiery-tempered Southern belle. It may not be home, but it was not without its charms.

Storm had clued him in to her mutation, and he had to admit that the thought of having his memories and his powers absorbed . . . it was a little daunting. But then, what kind of thief would he be if he didn't obtain the unobtainable – she was the Untouchable, the ultimate prize, and he could hardly resist the challenge. Besides, he was nothing if not **creative** . . . and the element of danger only added to the thrill of the chase.

Maybe he **was** a masochist . . .

No, he dismissed the thought with a smirk, he could hardly help it if he was secure enough in his manhood that being with a woman who could kill him didn't bother him.

'_Course, being with a woman who was __**actually trying to kill you**_ . . . no, he'd broken up with Belladonna by the time she'd gotten serious about that. At least, he was fairly sure that if she'd been trying to kill him while they were still together, she'd have had more success. At the very least, he would have noticed the difference . . . wouldn't he? That knife of hers danced across his mind, and he absentmindedly fingered his throat, wondering if it would have **made** a difference.

He frowned, trying to push his ex-fiancée from his thoughts. The girl – her name was Rogue, another tidbit from Storm – had an innocence to her that had nothing to do with her status as the Untouchable. She may be deadly, but he'd bet his last chip that she wasn't a killer.

Unlike Belladonna.

_Startin' t'worry like an old maid_, he chided himself. Belladonna had no idea he was back stateside, and he was going to make sure it stayed that way.

* * *

The Danger Room had always fascinated her; she slipped inside, feeling the echo in the cavernous steel room as the door clanged shut behind her. It was just a room, like any other, until its powerful computer stepped in.

This blank metal template could become anything – from a fierce jungle to a bustling metropolis – at the push of a button. She craned her neck, looking way up at the observational window. The Control Room was where the magic happened.

She could program anything she wanted – well, she could if she was sharp with computers like Kitty was. The powerful supercomputer held a vast bank of hostiles – enemies the X-Men had faced, and had collected data on. She herself was in there, as were all of the current X-Men. Shrugging aside the small voice that wondered if they'd uploaded a certain Cajun thief, she pushed her way out of the room and climbed the stairs to the Control Room.

She may not have Kitty's skill with computers, but she knew well enough how to make use of the preprogrammed simulations. There were countless scenarios, which could be configured for the individual players and difficulty desired, as well as individually-tuned workouts specially designed to hone the skills of each of the students.

Rogue hadn't run her training sim since she'd taken the Cure; her lips twisted derisively. Not that her sim was anything special to begin with – her power had never lent itself to open conflict; her preferred strategy was to sneak in while an opponent was distracted with the other X-Men, then render the threat unconscious with a single touch.

She tapped a few keys, setting the program to scan her and adjust itself to her level; she stripped off her gloves, leaving them draped neatly across the back of the seat. She wouldn't be needing them for a little while, and she simply hated getting them sweaty.

Her blood pounded in her ears, singing with anticipation as the door shut behind her, the cityscape muffling the tell-tale clang. For all intents and purposes, Rogue found herself in a grimy back alley, narrow and poorly lit. It could have been any dense metropolis, but she'd have been willing to bet this was a digitized version of New York, the sights and sounds and – she wrinkled her nose – smells were shockingly real. The muted splash behind her, the soft tread of a booted foot – these were real as well. The Danger Room was aptly named – any injury sustained here was real. In training mode, the computer would monitor her status, suspending the simulation before any real harm could come to her, but the broken glass littering the ground could cut her here just as it would in the real world, and that ground would feel no softer in here than out there. She could personally attest to that.

She supposed that's why Professor Xavier had elected to call it the Danger Room, rather than the Happy Fuzzy Cuddly Carebear Room.

She kept walking as if she didn't hear the man stalking her, moving with predatory intent – if a holographic projection could be said to have intent; instinct kicked in as she assessed the situation, sizing her opponent up: he was tall, probably upwards of six feet, and she'd put his weight at just north of two hundred pounds, judging by the shadows creeping closer, the length of his stride, and the impact of his booted foot against the wet pavement.

It barely even registered with her that it wasn't her own instinct she was relying on, that it most likely wasn't even her own frustrated impulse that had sent her down here in the first place.

* * *

Xavier frowned, staring at the printout Scott had given him, despite having long since memorized its contents. The training scenarios in the Danger Room were designed to test the students, starting slow and analyzing, then pushing them – benchmarking their abilities and allowing them to hone them.

Rogue hadn't been training since she'd taken the Cure, but that oddity was surpassed by the summary of the training sim. It had started her out slow, an urban environment rather than a standard fighting ring, getting a sense for her situational awareness – always a concern, for someone with no active defenses, for someone so vulnerable to the voices in her own head.

She'd beaten him easily – not that shed ever been weak, not that she'd ever been anything but a strong fighter. She'd taken the man down with ruthless efficiency, leaving him broken and bleeding behind her as she ventured further into the urban jungle.

From there . . . she'd gotten father than she'd ever gotten down before, felling her opponents two at a time, three at a time, outmaneuvering, outrunning, outfighting them all.

Outgunning them too, in the most literal sense of the word. The Control Booth charted power usage, and it had recorded from her just about every power that she had ever absorbed. Xavier had checked, and double-checked the video footage – she was channeling just about everything she had, calling up from memory searing gouts of flame, icy blasts, healing and phasing and even teleporting.

She'd literally ripped her last three opponents to shreds, with an efficiency that transcended brutality or cruelty or even self-defense. And then she froze.

Stopped in her tracks and watched, unblinking, as her opponent's blade streaked toward her heart.

* * *

Gambit paced, the restless pacing of a man confined. He wasn't used to the restrictions of a school accustomed to coming and going at his leisure, but the security system was enough to give even his not-inconsiderable skill a workout.

Besides, it wasn't so much that the restrictions **could** hold him, as that they were designed to. He was a thief, through and through, and he lived for the thrill of breaking the rules, of tasting the forbidden fruit. Craved it, even.

And here it was being offered to him on a silver platter.

Well, maybe not, but the bald man's offer was the next best thing. Working one-on-one with the girl, the one with the sharp tongue and the sharper curves . . .

He smiled, his eyes glowing with promise at the thought of her. If the man who called himself Professor Xavier thought a simple warning would discourage him, an admonition that his students were – what was the phrase the man had used?

Off limits.

His smiled only deepened as he slipped out of his room, shimmying effortlessly down the trellis and settling in for a walk. A man needed to stretch his legs, after all.

And he was never a man for restrictions.

* * *

She found herself at that tree again, moving unconsciously to scale the thick trunk and perch easily on a low-hanging branch. The chill breeze was a welcome distraction from her increasingly maudlin thoughts: she'd had a chance to recover from her recent bout of temporary insanity, but she was becoming increasingly mindful of the changes she'd gone through. And it wasn't just Wolverine. Powers or no powers, those voices that screamed silently in her thoughts were taking over. Slowly but surely, Rogue was being drowned out by the clamor of her many victims. But her "episodes" – as the Professor so tactfully named them – weren't what woke her, sweating and heart racing, in the middle of the night.

A flash of fuchsia, a gleam of chrome, bright and searing in her own thoughts. The thief was a recent addition to her disturbing dreams, and a pleasant one at that – except she knew she was deluding herself if she thought she could ever act on those dreams. No, damn him, he was far from the most compelling of her nightmares. She ignored the little voice that called her liar, that whispered seductive suggestions, tempting her with things she knew she could never have.

It was the little things that scared her.

Logan's tree, for one, or her occasional cravings for nicotine and whiskey – also courtesy of the Wolverine. The cravings were one thing, something she could isolate and identify, especially when she found herself with an unaccountable appetite for a food or a drink she was certain she'd never tried – or better yet, one she **knew** she hated. And then there were the stray thoughts and impulses that she couldn't control, couldn't identify, couldn't even begin to fight – she knew things she shouldn't, was haunted by demons she'd never confronted.

She'd picked up a criminal's habits, casing a room for escape routes as soon as she entered, keeping her back to a wall, noting any objects of value without a conscious thought. At any given time, she could close her eyes and see people and objects as they were, a perfect recall and situational awareness. She automatically sized people up – she had an instinct for danger, and she could pick out a trained fighter from a crowd, could read the deadly intent in every gesture, in the way a man carried himself.

The image sprang to her thoughts, unbidden, of the tall Cajun, slouching elegantly in that trench coat, stalking quietly in those big boots. A dangerous man, for sure.

It wasn't just the skills that were seeping through, though – it was the habits. Even worse, she'd caught herself more than once staring at a particularly well-endowed woman. Apparently, she was a boob man.

The thought disturbed her. She didn't have any particular impulse to sleep with other women – not yet, anyway – but she couldn't help looking, it was like a reflex. She wondered if that was Wolverine, wondered if that would be better than the myriad alternatives; wondered briefly, then realized that she really, really didn't want to know.

It was getting worse, and she couldn't control it, any more than she could control her own cursed skin. She'd touched evil, drawn it deep into her and held it there . . . and she worried it had stained her soul. How long before that stain began to surface, bubbling to the top of her roiling thoughts?

Sabertooth, Magneto, Juggernaut – these men were evil, and they didn't hesitate to kill those who stood in their way. Sabertooth would actually go out of his way for a kill – he savored it, reveled in his victims' terror. They were all in her head, fighting for control and subtly angling for dominance.

And with each day that passed, with every nightmare that woke her with a strangled scream dying in her throat, she could feel them winning.

* * *

(1) Dyce St. John: St. John Allerdyce, a.k.a. Pyro, has admitted to writing Gothic romance novels. I couldn't find any canon indicating what name he wrote under, so I'm giving him a slightly derivative pseudonym (most romance authors write under an assumed name). I think the quote goes something like "I write gothic romance, I've got more layers than a parfait!" It was too delicious not to include somewhere. I'm planning on having some fun with it, but I have only vague ideas about how. I also couldn't resist making the hero's name Remy. Set you up there, didn't i? Mwahahahaha!


	7. Chapter 7

**Curiosity**

**Chapter 7: Anger**

Disclaimer: I don't own Remy (damn). Or any of the other characters portrayed in this little flight of fancy – all property of Marvel. I'm probably leaving some important legal mumbo-jumbo out here, but I'm still distracted by the thought of owning Remy (yay) . . . which I don't (damn).

Author's Note: This chapter may seem a little disjointed (because it is). Then again, my writing style tends to jump like this anyway, so if it hasn't annoyed you enough to stop reading, then thanks for sticking around! I'm starting to thicken the plot (plot? What plot?) and the Romy as well, and I want it perfect so it's taking a while. This thing started out as a harmless little bit of drabble with a vague idea for a larger plot behind it, and now it's this . . . in the words of Dr. Frankenstein, "It's ALIIIIVE!"

* * *

He haunted her days the way he'd come to haunt her dreams, a living specter of fuchsia and chrome. She'd shrugged it off, at first – after all, even in a space the size of the mansion, paths were bound to cross. A chance encounter in a hallway – she ground her teeth at the way he'd leered at her when she'd asked, oh-so-nicely, if he was lost ("T'ink I found what 'm lookin' for, _cherie_"); a near-miss in the garage – he'd been too heads-down on that bike of his to even notice her as she peeked her head around the corner (well, he hadn't acknowledged her presence, but now that she thought about it, the play of muscles across his back, the way the white tank top had molded itself to his form . . . it seemed so artful, so posed); another run-in in the **library** of all places – he hardly struck her as the bookish type, though to be fair, it was one of the computers that held his attention (probably surfing the internet for porn).

She slipped quietly out of the library; she supposed the steamy romance novel could wait. Besides, why did she need to read some trashy paperback romance when she had her very own, larger-than-life suitor? OK, so maybe she couldn't touch him – he'd expressed a willingness to be _creative_, and she flushed at the memory of the way his voice had dipped, his eyes flaring dramatically. So maybe she didn't know a thing about him, any more than he knew about her – the look in his eyes when he'd told her that secrets were half the fun of the thing . . . well, that look should have been illegal. She shivered slightly at the memory; she could still feel his eyes on her, and she burned with some inexplicable, indescribable need. It had to be his eyes, the effect he had on her – the way all conscious thought fled when he looked at her, the way she found her mind wandering back to him when he was nowhere around, the way she could still **feel** the effects he had on her, lingering long after he'd gone.

So maybe she'd made it clear that his attentions were unwelcome. Well, no maybe about it. She'd decked him after that remark about being creative – once she'd managed to snap out of her trance, that is. Her right hook had knocked that perpetual smirk right off his face; no girly slap across the face for this Southern belle. Her mama may not have raised her right, but Logan had picked up where Mystique left off.

And still he followed her. Undeterred by the threats, the insults, or that vicious right hook. If anything, her actions seemed only to encourage him. He was her stalker more than her suitor, really.

At least he was her something. She suppressed a brief stab of guilty pleasure over that small triumph, tried to tell herself that the attraction was a side effect of one of the many psyches loitering in the dark recesses of her mind.

Kitty, for example. Or . . . Kitty.

But she knew the truth. And it burned her, burned like his eyes on her body, that she could possibly want that womanizing thief.

* * *

His jaw still stung where she'd hit him. She'd been standing in front of him, her eyes wide with possibilities at his suggestion (he'd encouraged the notion with a few subtle nudges), and then – out of the blue – BAM! That punch had kicked like a mule; he smirked, rubbing his jaw gently.

He deserved it.

He'd never chased a girl before – never had to. But the fiery Southerner was no ordinary girl, no momentary diversion. He tried to tell himself he was just in it for the challenge, just passing the time while he was on a job. But then he'd find himself following her, haunting those spaces he knew she'd visit, and he hated the way he could feel her presence wrapped around him, even as he relished it. She'd gotten under his skin, somehow, snaked her way in under his guard with that alluring, irresistible curiosity that threaded through the prickly front she showed the world.

She was pure, innocence and hope personified, under that Goth-inspired bad-ass act she'd gotten so good at, and every brush of that tangled-up hope against his senses felt like salvation.

* * *

Rogue was lost, drowning in a sea of voices, all blending together to form a single, seamless wall of sound that crashed against her overloaded senses. She could hear all of them, every mutant that had crowded into the dining hall – some of them echoing weirdly from inside her own head.

In other words, dinner as usual. If one or two of her voices was a little louder than usual . . . well, they were nothing she couldn't deal with.

It was her skin that was slowly driving her mad. Rogue was burning and freezing all at once, tingling all over, her skin reacting to the faintest breeze or the brush of her own clothing. She sat down at the end of an empty table, silently praying to any benevolent deity that would listen that her friends wouldn't notice her sitting alone in the dark corner. She wasn't sure she could deal with the combined onslaught of Kitty and Jubilee.

Of course, her self-imposed exile had nothing to do with the tall man in the trench coat who was chatting up Kitty and Tabitha, throwing into chaos the unspoken seating arrangements that usually prevailed. The boys – with the exception of the Cajun thief – had been banished to the end of the table; Kurt and Piotr were glaring daggers at the man as he flirted with the two girls.

Make that three. Jubilee giggled at something the Thief said as she took the seat directly across from him, elbowing her way in between Amara and Laura. Rogue choked down her French fries plain; she had neither the energy nor the patience to hassle with the ketchup bottle.

_Stalker_. She could almost taste the bitter word on her tongue, overpowering the blandness of her dinner though she hadn't spoken aloud. To be fair, the dining hall **was** a public place, and it **was**, after all, a free country. Last time she'd checked, anyway.

No, the label wasn't fair, but Rogue was too tangled up to see straight. The tingle seemed to intensify as a pair of red eyes raked over her, almost as though she could literally **feel** his eyes on her. But that wasn't one of her many abilities, skills that weren't really hers.

No, this was something else, something that transcended power and skill and instinct – just his eyes on her, something primal, something basic. She finished her food and fled, pursued by those devil-red eyes.

* * *

Wolverine smiled to himself as he watched the taller man sneak off, ducking down a deserted corridor. Up to no good, Logan was sure of it. He could smell it on him, an indefinable scent that never failed to spark his rage whenever the thief crossed paths with the students.

Not the students in general, though Logan was fiercely protective of all of Xavier's children.

Gambit must have been distracted; he barely had time to register the Wolverine following him before the shorter man slammed him roughly into the wall, pinning him there with a forearm across his throat.

"Listen bub," he growled, not bothering to conceal his irritation or his impatience. "I see right through you – you're no good, and I can **smell** it. I'll be watching you. You lay one finger on that girl – hell, if you even look at her wrong . . ." He didn't have to say her name – they both knew exactly who he was talking about. The claws slipped out; the Wolverine didn't even flinch as the cool metal sliced through the skin at his knuckles, sliding against the adamantium coatings on the long bones of his forearm with a distinctive _snikt_.

To his credit, Gambit didn't react as the Wolverine growled low in his throat, unsheathing those metal-coated claws mere inches from the Cajun's face. The man just stood there, his red eyes shining in the darkened corridor, a faint smirk creeping across his features.

"Easy, _homme_ . . . Gambit ain't gon' lay a finger on nobody as don' wan' this one's fingers on 'em. De students, dey underage, understand dat." He paused for a moment, that insolent smirk deepening as those glowing eyes pierced into the shorter man. "Sure, an' it's a good ting ye take such a **personal** interest in de students' well-bein'," he practically purred, holding the other man's eyes for an interminable moment before he pushed him off and turned to leave.

Wolverine frowned as the thief disappeared down the hall, trench coat flapping around his gleaming boots. Frowned, because even with his enhanced senses he could barely hear the taller man as he stalked away in those big, stupid boots, and because of what the arrogant thief had said. He couldn't possibly know about Jubilee, not even the Professor had picked that up . . . could he? Those eyes . . . Logan felt a cold chill down his spine.

Not like he was doing anything wrong. They were both consenting adults . . . so maybe the Asian girl had only been a consenting adult for a matter of months, now. It didn't change the fact that he didn't want the thief sleazing around the students. Most especially Rogue.

Logan had a bad feeling about the Cajun thief; the Professor was too trusting, all too willing to see in others the benevolence he himself embodied. The claws retracted with a faint hiss; they never warmed – not really – but it was always unsettling when the cool metal settled back into place against the long bones of his forearms. He shrugged it off, as he had every other time, and headed off down the hall.

The Cajun was good – Logan had seen him in action. He was stealthy and cunning, and one hell of a fighter with or without that adamantium staff of his. The Wolverine smiled, a faint growl rumbling deep in his throat. Gambit was good, no doubt about it, which just meant that he'd enjoy it that much more when he had to kill the swamp rat. It was a foregone conclusion that the man would slip up. Logan had certainly seen the way he was eying Rogue; he hadn't needed to smell the lust on the thief to know what he was thinking.

And when Gambit did slip up, Logan would be there. Waiting. The Professor probably wouldn't approve of him killing the rat, but he'd come to realize that with Xavier it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

* * *

They'd settled into a sort of routine. When he wasn't away negotiating with mutant terrorists – intimidating them, really – he spent his days at the mansion with Rogue. Watching her, getting to know her . . . after a fashion anyway. She wouldn't talk to him, and she avoided him like the plague. Everything he'd learned about her, he'd gleaned from talking to Kitty and Jubilee. On the rare occasions she shared a room with him for longer than it took her to get up and leave, she made sure to keep her distance. She'd even stopped eating with her friends, sneaking in and out of the dining hall and wolfing down her food in a quiet corner. He watched her eat, and he knew she could feel his eyes on her.

His eyes flared red in frustration as she fled, ducking out of his sight. He knew where she was going. Jubilee had let slip that the tree was Logan's spot, a place of solitude and meditation he used to keep himself centered. Logan was a man with his share of demons, and he sought out that tree when he felt himself slipping.

And now it was her spot.

Something Kitty had told him echoed in his head, and he found himself moving to follow her, mouthing hasty apologies to the girls clustered around him. Proof that he still had his charm, that it was Rogue alone who was able to resist him.

_She's always been good at keeping people out, but now . . . she's gone, even if her body's still here._

Gambit headed down a small hallway, hoping to head her off before she left the mansion. He wanted to talk to her, not scare the ever-loving stuffings out of her by sneaking up on her in the dark.

As with most of his plans regarding the girl, it was not to be. A soft growl was all the warning he had before Logan had him pinned against the wall. Remy stifled a sigh of irritation, waiting for the man to finish his speech. Logan was one of the most dangerous men he'd ever met – and that was saying something – but right now, he could barely spare a thought for the man's threats.

Besides, he had Logan's number.

He left the man standing stunned in the hallway, all but sprinting as he tried to catch up to the Rogue. In keeping with his luck so far, she was nowhere in sight. Experience told him she'd be out there all night, brooding in isolation.

Inspiration struck, and he turned around and headed back the way he came. A quick Google search, and he had what he needed. He snatched the printout and headed to the kitchen, humming softly to himself in satisfaction.

* * *

"A little cold to be sittin' out here fa' so long, chere." He kept his voice low, not wanting to startle her as he called out to her. She ignored him, staring fixedly off into the distance. She'd tried everything but outright confrontation to get him to leave her alone; why wouldn't he understand? She knew exactly why he was after her – he'd already developed somewhat of a reputation as a ladies' man, and she was the ultimate notch on someone's belt. Untouched. Untouchable.

At least as far as he knew, she was.

She was still wearing the tank top he'd seen her in at dinner; even with the gloves, she had to be freezing by now. She made no move to acknowledge him as he moved closer, balancing his burden delicately.

"Got t'thinkin," he mused softly, almost as though he was talking to himself.

"Thought ah smelled somethin'. Go 'way, Swamp Rat." It was barely a whisper, the first words she'd spoken to him since he'd returned a week ago. She steadfastly refused to look at him, keeping her eyes fixed on the mountains in the distance. This was the last straw – he'd invaded the one place she had where she could truly be alone with her thoughts. Wait, **did** she smell something?

"Oui, chere, got sometin' for ya." He moved to stand next to her, towering over her for a moment before settling in beside her, legs crossed.

"What could ya possibly have that ah want?" He could hear the annoyance coloring her tone, every line in her body tense with irritation. But she was too stubborn to move just yet, this he knew. This was her spot, and she wasn't giving it up without a fight.

He chuckled softly, setting his napkin-wrapped prize on the ground between them and pulling out a sugar-coated beignet. They were still warm, steaming softly in the chilly night. He sighed in contentment as he bit into the doughy morsel, finishing the entire thing off in a few gulps.

"Got y' a good ole fashioned taste o' home, cherie." Her eyes were fixed on him now, and he could almost see her drooling as she watched him lick his fingers clean. He smirked. Hook, line and sinker. Of course, women were usually after him for a little more than just a donut, but he'd take what he could get.

For now.

"Where'd ya find beignets round these parts?" Her curiosity was taking over, her voice softening reluctantly and her tension easing. She even left out the insults she usually directed at him.

His smirk deepened, and he popped another beignet into his mouth. "Mmmm . . . best eat 'em while dey're fresh," he advised, taking a deep swig of the chicory coffee he'd brought along.

He could read the conflict clearly on her face; she wanted one of those beignets, but he could tell she didn't want to accept them from him. Still . . . the smell had to be affecting her the way it did him, thick and sweet and intoxicating and tasting of memories. For Remy, that smell was an almost tangible sensation. Some of the best memories of his all-too-brief childhood were linked to that smell.

Still she hesitated, her hand frozen in midair, halfway to the napkin. A sudden impulse took him, and he caught her wrist in his hand, reaching out with his free hand and snatching one of the remaining beignets. Her eyes met his in shock, deep emerald green in the darkness, and he smiled.

Her eyes widened as she stared into his deep red orbs, losing herself in their depths. His eyes . . . they were terrifying and soothing all at once, glowing red in the night, and she was frozen before him, unable to move or think or even breathe as his eyes held hers.

Hypnotized.

She was sure it was a secondary mutation, this power he seemed to have over her. Over everyone, really. She blinked, trembling as his thumb brushed lightly over her lower lip, leaving a faint dusting of powdered sugar.

"Know you want this," he murmured, still holding her eyes with his. She could still feel the brush of his thumb at her lip, as tangible as his fingers at her wrist.

"Don't touch me."

A familiar refrain, one she'd thrown at him too many times for him to count. If her tone lacked its usual bite, if her eyes didn't scathe him with the full force of her fury . . . well, she was probably getting tired of repeating herself. She'd detached herself with almost mechanical efficiency, not even bothering to retaliate against the blatant invasion of her personal space.

If he was frustrated – and he was – the only sign was a brief quirk of his lips, an almost undetectable tightening around his eyes as he watched her retreat.

Rogue was fighting a losing battle. She wanted . . . she didn't know what she wanted, not with that damn Cajun scrambling her brain.

She waited till her back was to him before she let herself lick the powdered sugar from her lips, biting down on a soulful sigh. He made no move to follow her, to call her back, and she was surprised and relieved and disappointed, missing his warmth against her bare skin.

_You're stronger than this._

She wasn't sure whose voice it was, but it rang with truth. Rogue wasn't the type of girl to lose herself in a man, least of all an unrepentant womanizer. And she certainly wasn't desperate enough to fraternize with the Cajun thief, out of some misguided need to feel wanted.

Except her iron resolve melted when he was around – and he was always around. She smiled as she got an inkling, the barest hint of a suggestion. The thief was just doing what he did best – going after the unattainable prize. He'd lose interest as soon as he'd gotten her, of this she was sure. She wasn't about to give him that satisfaction, but she could certainly take away the thrill of the chase.

* * *

They were fighting a losing battle.

Remy could see it. He knew Storm could see it. But the old man refused to see what was right in front of him. They were fighting a war on two fronts, against a faceless, formless, nameless enemy. For every rogue cell they intimidated, every threat they neutralized, two more sprang up in its place. Violence was not only inevitable at this point, it was imminent.

Gambit was no general, but neither was he a simple thief; he'd been groomed to fight a war that had waged for centuries between the Assassins' Guild and the Thieves' Guild. Fight it, and end it. He was sure it was why Xavier had enlisted his services, though how the old man had ferreted out that bit of prophecy was beyond Remy. He supposed being the world's premier telepath had its perks, but he knew damn well the man hadn't gotten past his barriers; those shields were not of his making. A byproduct of his powers, perhaps, but no telepath in the world could get past that static. He was as good as white noise to Xavier, and that knowledge was the only thing that had convinced him to set foot in the man's school.

"Heads up."

Logan's growl was barely audible, but Remy tensed as soon as he heard the shorter man's voice; to his left, he felt Ororo do the same. He felt it too – they weren't alone in these tunnels.

They came flooding out of the blackness like a biblical plague, attacking from all directions at once. Remy barely had time to pull his staff from its holster before he was surrounded. The attackers swarmed over the three mutants, threatening to crush them with their numbers. Remy carved a path through the rag-tag lot with his bo staff, setting his back to Storm as they fought. Logan was on a rampage, laying about with his claws and growling fiercely.

Remy squared up, assessing their situation. The tunnels were too cramped for Storm to use her powers, but she fought fiercely; he could see where she got her fearsome reputation from. His own powers were next to useless in the close quarters as well, and the mutants were vastly outnumbered.

He pivoted, sweeping his opponent's feet out from under him. Three more took his place, leaping over their fallen comrade and splitting off to surround the tall thief. His red eyes narrowed in the darkness as he sized up his opponents; the two men flanking him were eyeing him nervously, but the man in the center moved with the grace of a trained fighter, betraying no hint of unease. He looked strangely familiar, but Remy didn't have time to dwell on it as they circled closer.

His foot slipped in the muck as he shifted to keep the three men in view, and his attackers seized their opportunity. Remy barely ducked a kick to the jaw from the center, spinning and striking out with his staff, keeping all three men at bay with a spinning adamantium shield. He spotted an opening, shifting to level a strike at the man in the center, but he missed his target, overextending and slipping again. This time the man's kick connected, snapping his head back; he swore, recovering quickly and turning the staff to slam it into the man's midriff. The man went down hard, clutching at his stomach; he'd felt the unmistakable crunch of ribs breaking. It wouldn't keep him down, but it should slow him down.

The other two men charged him from either side, a fraction of a second too late to take advantage of his momentary distraction. Remy darted forward, leaping over his down opponent and flipping to land neatly on the other side, edging back until he was just inside the narrow entrance of a smaller side tunnel; the other two trampled the first in their charge to reach him, hindering each others' movements as they tried unsuccessfully to flank him again.

Remy made short work of them, taking the first down with a well-placed kick to the head and downing the second with a sharp crack of his staff. He looked around, his glowing red eyes piercing the murk of the tunnels even as he reached out, melding his enhanced vision with his kinesthetic awareness and his empathy, and trying to asses the current situation. From what he could tell, there was very little movement; he could still feel Storm and Logan, along with a few other scattered presences. There was one, in particular, that stood out; terror dominated among the survivors, most of whom had already made good their escape, but this presence was calm and calculating.

And it was close. Remy eased his grip on his staff, palming a few cards out of habit as he stepped forward, into the light, and called out for his friends. He was ready for the attack, but one of the twin blades still nicked him, leaving a shallow slice across his throat as the man dropped from the ceiling like an overgrown bat.

Assassin.

* * *

Author's Note (part the second): this is sort of a transition chapter. I didn't originally mean to cut it off at such a cliffhanger (hehe) but I wanted to keep the chapters a decent length, and I also think it'll help me with the transition between chapters (this is not a real split, more like a part a/b split).

Please review!


	8. Chapter 8

**Curiosity**

**Chapter 8: Consequences**

Disclaimer: I'm not affiliated with Marvel in any way, shape or form (sniffle).

Author's Note: Alright, part two of the cliffhanger. Thanks to everyone who's reviewing and sorry for making you wait so long for this one, my life is a little hectic right now with work and apartment shopping and other various and sundry distractions, so I've not managed to reply to any of my lovely reviewers, but you all are much appreciated (happy thawts).

This is a short one, but no worries, things are going to start moving fast – that's the goal, anyway. The ladies are going to switch it up on Remy this chapter, so that should be fun, too.

* * *

_Remy eased his grip on his staff, palming a few cards out of habit as he stepped forward, into the light, and called out for his friends. He was ready for the attack, but one of the twin blades still nicked him, leaving a shallow slice across his throat as the man dropped from the ceiling like an overgrown bat. _

_Assassin._

Remy frowned. He'd had worse cuts shaving, but it wasn't the cut itself he was worried about. More likely than not, the blade was tainted. Unless . . .

Remy didn't have time to think on it any further; the Assassin attacked again, with a speed and fury that stunned him, driving him back until he hit the wall. The man was good. Remy ducked another attack, with the weighted hilts of the knives this time. Remy's eyes blazed as he went on the offensive, creating a spinning shield with his staff as he pushed off from the wall. He pivoted, slipping a kick past the man's own defenses as he spun, just in time to counter the man's answering attack. He felt a satisfying crunch as the staff impacted the man's wrist. The blade went flying from the man's useless fingers; the man's right wrist was broken, his confidence badly shaken – Remy could read it in his eyes, the way he held himself – but he kept his cool. Watching. Waiting. Probing for an opening.

Remy gave him one, letting his guard falter as he pretended to slip; the man seized the opening immediately, leveling a kick at Remy's wrist that knocked the staff from his hand. _Merde_, but the man was quick. He swore as the man pressed his advantage, kicking and punching in rapid succession. To his credit, he actually managed to land a few blows before Remy took him down with a knee to the solar plexus. He retrieved the staff from the muck and clipped the man sharply upside the head, stooping to check for the tattoo he was sure the man bore before turning back to his friends.

The man was a Ripper, sporting the mark of the chosen few who'd fought their way into the Guild's inner circle. Belladonna had that mark, but it had been given to her when she was eleven, as part of her birthright. Well, with any luck, he would never wake up. Things like that had a way of happening, in the sewers of New York. He briefly considered ending the man himself, but for all of his sins, he was not a murderer. Not in cold blood. Not even an Assassin.

Storm and Logan had the situation well in hand. The Goddess was a sight to behold, covered in muck and grime and blood, and looking as regal and fearsome as an Amazon Queen. Logan . . . was also covered in fluids best left unidentified, looking somewhat less regal but just as fearsome. He'd anticipated no less. Most of the lot were poorly armed, with little or no martial training. How the Assassin had tracked him down – if he was indeed the man's primary goal – and what the man was doing mixed up in a rag-tag lot of wanna-be mutant-hater terrorists . . . well, it seemed he had some digging to do.

* * *

Rogue took a deep breath, steeling herself before she knocked, the timid tapping setting off a barrage of excited yipping. She tried to tell herself that the shocked expression on Jubilee's face as she opened the door was worth the butterflies in her stomach.

_Haven't even started to carry out my nefarious plan and I've already got the jitters._

"Ah was thinkin' bout hittin' the mall, ya up for it?" She smiled – sweetly, innocently, she hoped - as Jubilee snapped her mouth shut, still staring as though Rogue had sprouted another head.

"Um . . ."

Rogue could see Jubilee reaching for her purse even as she eyed Rogue suspiciously. Superman had his kryptonite, Achilles had his heel . . . Jubilee's weakness was the mall. She was powerless to resist.

"Meet me at the garage in ten, gonna swipe Scott's keys. That RX-8 of his is just beggin' for a joy-ride."

Rogue couldn't quite keep the evil smirk off her face as she left Jubilee to frantically get ready – and gather up Logan's credit cards, no doubt. She found Kitty curled up on a bench in one of the gardens, staring over her laptop screen with a dreamy expression.

"Hey, Kit. Ya wanna hit the mall, or ya too busy day dreamin'?"

"Hmm?" Kitty frowned, looking around in confusion. "Mall? I wasn't . . . wait, what? Are you feeling OK?"

Rogue chuckled in amusement, wondering idly just which lucky boy had Kitty so distracted. "Feelin' just fine, aside from a slight case of cabin fever . . . gotta get out, get some fresh air."

"At the mall?" Everyone knew Rogue hated the mall, with a passion that rivaled Logan's feelings for Mystique. "Who are you, and what have you done with . . . wait, what am I saying?"

Rogue smiled, putting on a reasonable impression of innocence. It was only getting easier with practice. "Garage in five, Jubilee's prob'ly waitin' for us already."

Kitty blinked as though she expected Rogue to vanish, cackling, in a swirl of smoke. She shook her head, closing the laptop and skipping off to the room. She'd barely seen her roommate for three days, and when Rogue had shown herself, she'd been a mopey, despondent shell of her normal self. She wouldn't even argue with Kitty. Rogue without her razor-sharp tongue and hair-trigger temper was like . . . well, it wasn't Rogue at all. Then again, this doppelganger who was actually organizing an expedition to the mall bore little resemblance to any of the Rogues she was familiar with, but she wasn't about to argue. She hadn't been to the mall in ages, and she had a date Saturday night.

OK, so it wasn't a real date that she could actually tell anyone about, but somehow that only made it more exciting. She just had to look perfect, and she had nothing to wear. Kitty set her laptop carefully on her desk before giving herself a quick once-over in the mirror and phasing through the floor. She knew it creeped people out, but she couldn't risk Rogue and Jubilee leaving without her, and besides, it **was** the fastest way to the garage.

* * *

They were still staring, darting incredulous looks at her when they thought she wasn't looking, but – just as she'd counted on – they weren't able to resist the chance to give her a makeover. Rogue sighed, staring at the reflection in the mirror. If there were days when she didn't recognize the girl staring back at her, if there were days when her thoughts were so jumbled up that her own face seemed alien . . . she blinked, wondering what sort of dark magic had effected this change in her. It didn't seem possible that a simple haircut – a trim to take off the dead ends – could have transformed her hair so completely, that a few swipes with various arcane powders and brushes could have crafted the face in the mirror. Her hair fell in wild curls, twisting around her face, framing cheekbones that were somehow more prominent, the auburn and silver contrasting with the pale oval of her face, the vivid green of her eyes, which seemed to be much larger and brighter than she remembered.

The lady behind the cosmetics counter had definitely been a practitioner of the black arts, she mused dryly, turning to take in the full effect of the outfit. It was too tight, too short, too bright . . . it was definitely not **her**.

It was perfect.

"Like, are you coming out or what?"

Rogue suppressed a grimace and stepped out of the changing room, twirling dutifully for her tormentors. She wondered briefly if Kitty's high-pitched squeal was a secondary mutation; it was nearly as deafening as Siryn's screams.

She plastered the smile back on her face and bit her tongue as the other girls led her from store to store, filing it away in the back of her head when Kitty splurged on a little dress – it was dark green and sweet rather than sexy, but she knew Kitty well enough to know that she had an occasion in mind for the dress.

Well, that was certainly something she'd have to remember.

Logan must be rubbing off on her, she was definitely leaning toward the dark side.

* * *

"Remy."

He froze at the end of the hallway as the Goddess spoke, her tone imperious.

"_Oui, cherie_?"

She had him cornered before he could react, her heels putting her on a level with him as she pushed aside the collar, her fingers tracing over the thin laceration decorating his throat.

"This is a concern," she said levelly, her eyes seeming to bore into his.

"_Non_, it's nothin' t'worry y' pretty head 'bout," he said dismissively, reaching up to pull her hands away. "Jus' a little scratch." Her sharp stare stopped him short, and he let his hands drop back to his sides.

"I took the liberty of asking around, Remy – getting in touch with some old friends." She scanned his face for any reaction, but his poker face never slipped. He had always been a difficult read, but she'd bet her last chip he was annoyed. It was subtle, but his eyes had flared ever so slightly when she'd spoken. It only confirmed the whispers she'd been hearing.

"You've got a price on your head."

"Remy's got a way wit' de ladies," he muttered sarcastically.

"Why didn't you tell me? Perhaps the Professor could –"

"Sick o' lettin' her chase me away." His voice was low and soft, his eyes hooded. "Don' let no one fight my battles fo' me."

She stood for a moment, her fingers still tracing the thin line of dried blood at his throat. This was a side of Remy she'd rarely seen, a side few people even realized existed; Belladonna had hurt him, badly – in more ways that one. That he had hurt her as well, Ororo did not doubt – she knew few of the details of that affair, but she knew enough of arranged marriages to know that the weights of duty and family honor could strain even a solid relationship . . . not that the volatile affair he'd had with Belladonna had ever been what she'd call 'solid.'

Still, there had been passion between the Thief and the Assassin, this she knew, and she knew her friend well enough to know that the thrill of it had excited him. He was romantic enough to be taken with the Romeo and Juliet aspect of the relationship, and he was crazy enough to chase after a girl who could have killed him, who had every reason in the world to try to kill him.

She sighed, reaching down to take his hand in her own. A thief's hand, his large, calloused fingers delicate enough to pick the smallest lock. The hand of a Casanova, as skilled with women as he was with locks, the hand of a drinker and a smoker. He was all of these things, but he was also the closest thing she had to family. Her big brother. He had helped her for no other reason than she had needed help. (1)

And here he was, risking his neck to help her again.

She stood for a moment after he'd left, disentangling himself gently and disappearing silently. A loud rumble caught her attention, rousing her from her thoughts. She could feel the tingle in the air, even here in the basement of the massive structure that was Xavier's School for the Gifted.

Her eyes whitened again, and she reached out, calming the tempest she'd created. Without a doubt, anyone familiar with her powers would know that she was the cause of the sudden storm, and it bothered her deeply to wear her heart on her sleeve for all to see. The skies wept when she was sad, the heavens rejoiced with her when she was happy . . . and her anger had been known to level buildings. She made her way outside, letting the last of the rain wash away her cares as she wandered through the gardens. She had much to think about, and she needed to calm herself before she ran into any of her teammates.

* * *

Heaven.

Rogue was in heaven. Most people would call it sunbathing, but for a girl whose unique mutation had made skin-to-skin contact a deadly proposition for most of her life, it was a delicious treat. Even if it was a typical Fall day in upstate New York, with all that entailed. Summers were a torment for the Southern mutant, the heat and humidity doubly unbearable for having to keep herself covered up, and for having to watch as her friends shed their winter clothes for shorts and tank tops and bikinis and pool parties and water fights . . .

For the first time she could remember, Rogue was wearing a bikini, a daring dark-red number that was little more than a few patches and a few strings, and that set off her dark hair and pale skin beautifully. She shivered as the breeze picked up, cooling her sun-warmed skin; she loved the sensation of the wind tickling her sensitive skin, the way it contrasted with the gentle tingle of the sun. If she didn't know better, she'd say she was getting a sunburn. In New York, in the Fall.

Her eyes widened, her skin crawling as every hair on her body tried to stand on end, the tingle intensifying; this was not normal, even by her loose definition of that word. A bolt of lightning shot from the clear sky and she yelped, rolling off the lawn chair and diving for her towel. Before she could slip into her flip-flops – another novelty, and another of the purchases she'd made earlier in the morning – the clear sky had darkened menacingly, an angry vortex of black clouds centering itself over the institute.

Storm.

If the team was back already, something must have gone wrong . . . but one look at the sky could have told her that. It was pouring rain by the time she'd gathered her clothes, not bothering to slip into her shorts or cover herself with a towel as she ran pell-mell for the mansion.

She slipped on the tile, losing her grip on her clothes and skating across the floor, colliding with something tall and unyielding. A hand closed around her arm, steadying her and keeping her from toppling over to the floor. Rogue pulled her damp curls out of her face and looked up, straight into a pair of blazing red eyes. He had a faint smirk on his face as he looked down at her.

Of course. This was just perfect.

Wait, this **was** perfect. Rogue smiled up at him, resisting the urge to yank her arm away.

"Fancy runnin' into ya like dis," he rumbled, his face writ large with amusement, his eyes sparkling mischievously. She blushed when she realized her bikini was clinging lovingly to her, her soaking form pressed tightly against his.

When had he put his arm around her?

That wasn't the point. She blinked, trying to ignore the warmth of his arm locked against the small of her back, the comforting press of his chest against hers . . . she had to focus!

Rogue shifted in his arms, running her hands up his chest to grasp the open lapels of his trench coat. She saw him swallow thickly as she tilted her head up, leaning into him.

"Thank ya kindly for the rescue, Cajun," she said, her lips almost brushing his throat as she whispered in his ear.

* * *

Remy stormed through the mansion, his trench coat swirling around his boots. He had a lot on his mind. He needed to get in touch with his old network, and he needed a shower; he felt an overpowering need to wash away the blood at his throat, as though ridding himself of the mark could rid himself of his problem. He failed to notice the windows shaking with the force of the storm outside, but he did notice when a short figure crashed into him in a blur of russet and pale skin and auburn hair.

He caught her before she could fall, pulling her flush against him; he opened his mouth to speak, to say something clever, and then he saw what she was wearing and the words died on his lips.

It was just a bikini. It was just a bikini, a ridiculously small concoction of patches and strings, and she was just a girl. The fact that the only skin she normally showed was above the neck – besides the tiny sliver exposed at her waist when she moved just so – was not lost on him. And she was soaking wet, shivering against him as she fisted her hands in the lapels of his coat, pressing herself into him and looking up at him with those luminous green eyes.

He managed to mumble something inane. She whispered in his ear, her voice low and breathy, and then she pulled away, disentangling herself and turning to gather her clothes before leaving. His eye twitched faintly as she bent over; he'd bet money that she was posing for him, that she knew exactly the effect that the arch of her back had on him, and the sashay in her step as she left lent evidence to his theory.

Looks like that shower was going to be a cold one.

* * *

Please review!

(1) Uncanny X-Men 266 and 267, where Gambit rescues a youthened Storm from the clutches of the Nanny. He takes her with him to New Orleans, where the two lead a glamorous life of crime until she rejoins the X-Men.


	9. Chapter 9

**Curiosity**

**Chapter 9: It Killed the Kat**

Disclaimer: Don't own any pieces of the DC universe any more than I own the Marvel-verse. So sad.

Author's Note: Last time, in this rambling cobbled-together tale, Rogue hatches a plan. Gambit is finding himself in more trouble than he is ready to deal with. (I think) I'm taking liberties with Gambit's character here. I know I've read somewhere that he's a fan of Star Trek, so I'm assuming that in the same vein he'd be a Joss Whedon fan. Not so far-fetched, especially with the whole Firefly/Serenity thing, where they're all professional thieves, more or less.

* * *

"I just know he's up to something!"

"Um, Ms. Munroe?" Kitty asked nervously, eying the darkening clouds outside the study.

"Forgive me, my child, but I am sure that he's keeping something from me."

Kitty sighed. She could see exactly where this was going. The weather witch was hardly the type to seek out a hear-to-heart with one of her students. No, the goddess was after information – information she knew only Kitty could supply.

"I need your help, my dear. Your reputation with that computer is legendary," she said, eyeing Kitty's laptop distrustfully out of the corner of her eye.

"What exactly would I be looking for that the Professor hasn't already found?"

Ororo Munro cleared her throat hastily. "The Professor respects Remy's privacy. He does not make a habit of delving into the minds of the unwilling."

Kitty smiled, sensing her advantage. "You want to keep this from the Professor."

"Professor Xavier has much on his mind."

"I want that T-1 line."

"I hardly think this calls for blackmail."

"I hardly think I can gather the information I need on a shared DSL connection – not with the boys spending all their time on YouTube and file sharing sites."

"They're not supposed to download anything illegal," the Goddess muttered, pressing a hand to her temple.

"They're teenage boys," Kitty said wryly, fairly buzzing with the prospect of all that bandwidth.

"Heaven help us. Alright, you will get your T-1, child, if you find what I'm looking for."

"You have something specific in mind?"

"Remy is being hunted – I want you to find out who's trying to kill him."

* * *

"I just **know** she's up to something!"

Jubilee smirked, shooting Kitty an amused look. "Oh, I'm pretty sure we both know **exactly** what she's up to … and he's tall, dark and handsome, with brooding red eyes."

Kitty rolled her eyes. "You don't know her like I do, there's more to it than meets the eye."

"Enlighten me," Jubilee sighed dramatically, flopping down on the sofa and reaching for the remote.

"Hey, I think Smallville's almost on!"

"Ohmigod, I love that show. They left it on such a cliffhanger last season."

"Totally," Kitty agreed, settling down beside Jubilee.

"Hey, where is everyone? Shouldn't we be, like, engaged in an epic struggle for the remote with like, half the other students?"

"Yeah, it is suspiciously quiet."

"Speaking of suspicious, what's the deal with Rogue? I mean, you know her a lot better than I do."

"Well, she's really . . ." Kitty searched for a word that would describe her roommate – neurotic, crazed, and antisocial sprang to mind, but she settled on something a little more tactful. "Complex."

Jubilee snorted with laughter. Tactful wasn't really her style.

Kitty forged on, ignoring Jubilee. "Seriously, though – Rogue keeps a lot bottled up. Like, when she went off to get the Cure, it was like everything was normal one day, and then – bam – she was gone, and she'd done it. No warning, nothing."

"I heard Bobby was cheating on her with you, and that's why she ran away and got the Cure." OK, so Jubilee didn't even know the meaning of the word tact.

"That's not true," Kitty said slowly. "I would never do that to her. Bobby and I are friends, and we were all going through a difficult time, what with the Professor . . ." Kitty sighed. "He tried to talk her out of it. She didn't take the Cure for him."

"Why in god's name would any boy try to talk Rogue out of taking the Cure? I mean, she's like drop-dead gorgeous – or she would be if she didn't dress like a reject from an Anne Rice novel – he'd have to be insane to not want to touch her!"

"Bobby cared about her. He wanted her to be happy, but he didn't want her to try to erase what she was just so she could have a physical relationship. It's, like, totally romantic if you think about it."

"Yeah, if you think Romeo and Juliet is romantic."

"Um . . ." Kitty frowned, wondering where Jubilee was going with this. That was one of her favorite plays, one of the greatest love stories of all times.

"Oh please, they both kill themselves – what is so romantic about that? I mean, if he'd just sucked it up and dealt with it, everything would have turned out fine, Juliet would have woken up, and they would have lived happily ever after. Until they got married, that is."

"You are such a cynic. Were you always like this, or is Logan really rubbing off on you that much?"

"Oh, shut up and watch the show."

Kitty chose to ignore that, concentrating instead on the television. She smiled as she savored the irony that the X-Men had their very own man of steel, the smile melting away as her thoughts strayed back to reality. She supposed they were lucky it was still on the air, what with the current mutant protests. Superman wasn't a mutant, but he was the next best thing, and nowadays the protesters leapt at even the smallest affiliations with mutants.

And they both had the dreamiest deep blue eyes.

"Man of Steel or not, Clark has got **nothing** on Piotr," Jubilee said slyly, watching out of the corner of her eye as Kitty slowly turned bright red. "But then again, that Prince of Thieves is seriously hot too, and he does have the whole 'Bad Boy' thing going for him. . ."

"Speaking of forbidden love, does Logan know you drool over other men?" Kitty asked lightly, trying desperately to put Jubilee on the defensive.

"I'm not drooling. Besides, a girl is allowed to look."

* * *

"You're keeping something from me, sister."

"Relax, Julien, you worry too much."

"You risk too much, sister. If our father was alive to see this –"

"But he isn't. Let's not waste our time pretending we miss him and his stupid reliance on archaic traditions."

"Those traditions keep us strong!"

He was beginning to become agitated. Julien was a first-class Assassin, but he lacked . . . ambition, clarity of purpose. The ability to deal with change. The world had changed around the Guild, and her father had chosen to ignore those changes, keeping the Guild anchored firmly in the seventeenth century.

Which, in the end, had been his undoing. He should have seen it coming – would have seen it coming if he'd realized what he'd created in his daughter. He'd trained her as he trained Julien, steeping her in the Assassin's art from an early age. But he'd never intended her to take over his empire. That was the job of the firstborn male. No, for his daughter he'd had something more . . . traditional . . . in mind.

Julien was obviously unfit to take over the empire; Marius had at least recognized his own son's shortcomings. He'd even come up with a most ingenious solution to the problem – marry Belladonna off to the Prince of the Thieves' Guild, cementing an alliance between the two warring Guilds, crafting a treaty of peace between them as well as doubling the territory and influence of both, and securing a male to take over the reins of the dual empire – Jean-Luc's adopted son.

It wasn't that Belladonna had disapproved of the merger – Remy was a most agreeable match, or he would be once she'd trained him properly – or the power that would come with it. It was her place in the deal that angered her. The empire that should have been hers going to an outsider, with nothing she could say to change it. She would be powerless, a trophy wife expected to produce an heir and keep her mouth shut.

Belladonna was not the type to accept her fate quietly. That was Julien's nature. "Those traditions made us weak. We've been warring with the Thieves' Guild too long – it has depleted both our ranks."

Now Julien looked confused. Serves her right for trying to explain herself to him. "You know we did what we had to. Father would have signed me away to that Thief, ceded control over the Guild to an outsider."

"You were the one that killed Father! Not me! And you wanted Remy, everyone knows it! If they didn't before, your blatant obsession with him would give it away!"

"I held the knife that killed him, but you stood by while I made my plans. Your weakness killed him, Julien, which is why you would never have inherited the throne." She ignored the angry glare and pressed on. "And I do want Remy – father was right about one thing: this union is critical. We must unite the Guilds under one rule, end this senseless infighting."

"But you said –"

"I said I could never have the Assassin's bow to a thief! If I marry Remy, I have just as much right to the Thieves' Guild as he as to the Assassin's Guild. And I intend to exercise that right!"

"That is not your place!"

"Julien, my dear brother, whatever would make you say that?"

"You're a woman!"

"And this woman has accomplished more than you've ever dreamed, brother mine."

"You killed Father!"

"Only because you didn't have the balls to do it yourself. Marius was soft in his old age – he let his guard down. He should have been expecting it."

"He raised us!"

"As his father raised him, and that didn't stop him from taking out his old man."

"Father would never have –"

"Julien, have you read our Chronicles? I have . . . you should really read of our traditions before you presume to understand them. Marius murdered his father, as his father murdered his when it was time to take the throne."

"That's barbaric!"

"We're Assassins, darling, not florists."

Julien bit his lower lip. He really was a sensitive boy . . . how that had ever happened was a mystery to Belladonna.

"Now listen to me. I am going to take this Guild into the twenty-first century. All I need is one stupid Thief and I'll have my alliance – and with it, we'll have control of both the Guilds."

"You think LeBeau is just going to let you take over his Guild?"

"Leave Remy to me."

"I still don't think this is right, it's distasteful."

"What is it exactly about searching for someone that turns your stomach? We do it everyday."

"And then we kill them. We only hunt paid targets. We aren't kidnappers!"

"Julien, my boy, I have no intention of kidnapping him." Actually, she did, but he didn't need to know about that particular Warrant. "I just need to find him. Once I remind him of his responsibility to his Guild, everything else will fall into place." Belladonna smiled, a chilling twist of her lips that never reached her eyes. She doubted Remy would go easily into matrimony, but she was not without her own means of persuasion. Besides, if he was half as stubborn as she remembered, it would almost be fun to break him.

Julien frowned uncertainly at her declaration of innocence. He was always so trusting.

"I'm just going to look for him – a girl is allowed to look, right?"

Hook line and sinker. And when she got her hands on Remy, she wouldn't need her sniveling brother anymore.

* * *

Rogue swallowed nervously, tugging uselessly at her outfit – if you could call it that. It was the kind of outfit that usually came with its own theme song – something with a strong beat and a suggestive guitar riff. The kind of outfit she'd never dared to wear before – not since she'd acquired her mutation. Short shorts and a too-tight tank top had been her first choice, but she'd bowed to the growing chill in the air and settled for something a little more seasonal. She'd twisted her hair up off her neck into a loose braided bun, baring a considerable expanse of skin that wasn't wrapped in a dark green skinny scarf that draped loosely over her shoulders, cascading over a pure white tank top that fell just short of her hips. She'd squeezed herself into a scandalously tiny jean skirt, held up with a thick belt that matched the high-heeled boots she was strutting around the mansion in.

She'd managed to keep her cool during breakfast, ignoring the startled looks from the other stragglers that dragged themselves down to breakfast at the ungodly hour of eleven in the morning. She took her coffee black, as usual, gulping it down and heading instinctively for a quiet spot to brood. She was halfway through the garden maze when she remembered she had a plan.

A bad plan. Who was she kidding? She was no seductress . . . she was nervous baring a little skin, there was no way she could chase after the Thief convincingly enough to get him to leave her alone. Still, it had been quite a rush, an evil thrill when she'd turned the tables on him last night. Had it only been last night? She could still feel his fingerprints on her wrist, as though they'd been burned into her skin by the intensity of his touch.

Damn it, she'd faced down the Juggernaut, and she was letting some Cajun Casanova get her all hot and bothered. She was as nervous as a schoolgirl – which, to be strictly accurate, she still was, but that was hardly the point.

If she ever wanted some peace and quiet, she needed to scare that infernal thief off her trail. She knew exactly what he was after, knew his type from the many psyches crowding her out of her own head. This one was after one thing – a notch on his belt. Bragging rights – he wanted to boast that he'd touched the untouchable. The girl that no one else dared to touch. Take that away, and he'd surely lose interest in her.

Rogue steeled herself, turning and heading back to the mansion. She'd made a full round of the house before it occurred to her that he'd always found her – she had no idea where he spent his time when he wasn't tailing her like a lost puppy.

Well, didn't that just burn the biscuit? Here she was, all dressed up with no one to stalk.

* * *

Remy was a creature of the night, his eyes well-adapted to the inky shadows of a moonless night, his temperament well-suited to the darker pleasures the night had to offer. He'd never been one for Church, despite his adoptive father's devout nature. Something about being denounced as a demon by the clergy had soured his enthusiasm for religion.

He had his own devotions. Wine, women and song. These were his sacrament, the bars and clubs his temple. And he was devout in his worship.

The High Priest of debauchery.

The mansion's other inhabitants had grown accustomed to his odd hours, never suspecting that when he dragged himself out of bed and shuffled down to the kitchen each afternoon, bleary-eyed and stumbling, that he hadn't been out drinking and carousing. He had a reputation to uphold.

Still, he couldn't miss the pointed looks she shot him when he made his afternoon beeline for the coffee pot, the smoke from his morning cigarette still wafting around his trench coat. He'd studied her habits, mapping out her routes and timing his activities around them.

So, where the hell was she today? He'd missed her at breakfast (OK, it was a late lunch of coffee and burnt toast), and she wasn't in any of the place she could normally be found. He'd checked the garden mazes twice.

She'd been acting strangely - even for her. Yesterday's incident with the bikini was only the icing on the cake. There was something going on with her, he could feel it every time she was near. That delicious tangle that was uniquely her, threatened to overwhelm him now with its intensity.

And when he touched her last night . . . it was like being drunk, a dizzying sensation that mingled his own jumbled emotions with hers, like he was sensing himself from the outside as she wrapped herself around him. Was that what being absorbed felt like? He'd been warned of her power, but the mansion gossip said she'd taken The Cure. If you listened to Kitty - and he did, given that the girl seemed to have her ear to every door in the house (or maybe *in* every door in the house); hers was a most useful mutation, indeed. If you listened to Kitty, Rogue had taken The Cure, but she still hadn't trusted herself to touch. And now, like with so many other mutants, that cursed Cure was wearing off. According to Kitty, Xavier thought she could take advantage of the temporary cessation of her power to gain some measure of control. He wanted her to practice absorbing, practice turning it on and off.

Only, she was avoiding her practice sessions with the Wolverine, and she was withdrawing even more from her friends. She was afraid - he felt it every time she was near, the kind of crippling fear that paralyzes the senses, shutting out everything but the fear itself.

She was afraid of hurting someone. He knew that one from close, personal experience. His fingers traced idly over a series of scars, nearly faded, tracing across his forearms. That one had been bad; a marble statue had blown up in his face. He'd barely had time to shield his face . . . his hands had been scarred for years, legacy of not know when to let go. He'd worn gloves to cover the unsightly scars as well as to protect against further injury, open-fingered for dexterity. When the scars decorating his palms finally healed, he was too used to the gloves to take them off.

He supposed that's why she still dressed to cover every inch of skin. It was a safety blanket, a comforting habit. Even after she'd shed the gloves as a concession to the Professor, she still tugged at their imaginary hem.

Which made last night all the more worrisome.

A chirpy giggle distracted him from his musings. Kitty and Jubilee had taken over one of the entertainment rooms; from the sound of it, they were doing what they did best: gossiping. And he'd bet a dollar to a bent dime he could guess the subject of their speculations.

"Mind if I join y'?" Remy paused at the doorway as thought awaiting their response, slouching elegantly against the doorframe as he took in the scene. Jubilee fairly radiated smug assurance, while Kitty refused to make eye contact with the other teen, her cheeks colored faintly pink. And if he wasn't mistaken, he detected a note of something that could almost be . . . guilt.

Jubilee smirked. "Come on in. We're watching Smallville, but it's almost over."

Remy waltzed in, draping himself over the loveseat adjacent the two girls. "Heard they're re-running Firefly . . . know anythin' 'bout that?"

Jubilee wrinkled her brow in confusion, but Kitty's face lit up like Christmas. "They've been running it super-late, like three in the morning on the Space Western channel, but I've been recording the episodes on the DVR, so we can watch them if you want?"

Jubilee appeared more than slightly alarmed at Kitty's enthusiasm.

Remy smiled. "Sounds good, cherie." Rogue was bound to show up sooner or later, she usually wound up watching TV with these two. He'd carefully chosen a seat which wasn't easily visible from the door. When she showed up, he would be waiting. Like taking candy from a baby.

He'd failed to factor in Kitty's incessant chatter. About Firefly, mostly, peppered with a few sly half-questions about his background, or his relationship with Storm, or - more pointedly - his pursuit of Rogue.

A faint tingle – unmistakable, and growing nearer by the second – distracted him from Kitty's monologue. The authoritative click-click of booted heels on the solid hardwood floors of the hallway heralded her arrival long before he could see her.

Not Rogue – Storm. He heard her footsteps falter briefly, slowing as she passed the doorway. He caught her eye as she glanced his way.

Or, at least, he thought he did. The Goddess hurried past without a second glance, seemingly too preoccupied with her own thoughts to notice when, with a wink and a salute to Kitty, he slipped out of the room to follow her. His own boots made barely a whisper as he stalked his prey.

He'd bet his boots she'd been looking for someone – and avoiding him. That alone was enough to spark his curiosity, enough to take his mind off that infuriation untouchable southern beauty.

That was truly something worth pursuing.

* * *

"Whatcha watchin?"

Rogue dug deep, mustering every speck of dignity she had as she strutted toward the empty chair. She wasn't used to strutting around the mansion in these damn FMB's, and – strutting being the only gait possible in the torturous boots – her feet were killing her. She must've lapped the grounds three times, with no sign of the damn Cajun thief.

It was taking all of her concentration to ignore the pointed stares she was getting. Jubilee looked like she was choking, and Kitty was gaping at her openly.

"Um, new outfit?"

Kitty, of course, was the first one to speak.

"Umm, yeah." Rogue was never one to miss an opportunity for sarcasm.

"Those boots are seriously cute – you have to let me borrow them, they'd go great with my new corduroys, the ones I bought to go with those cute little sweaters I found!"

"Kitty, you couldn't walk in these without breakin' your neck even if your feet weren't three sizes smaller than mine! Ah can't even walk in these damn things!"

She threw herself down in the chair, sprawling across the arm in a most unladylike fashion. It was still warm.

Damn the man, she must have just missed him. It had to be him – the smell of his aftershave still lingered faintly. How creepy was it that she noticed that?

"You just need a little practice," Kitty chirped, suppressing her first instinct to snap back at the cantankerous Southerner.

"Yeah, I'm sure you'll get the hang of those boots, Rogue. Hey, and I really love that skirt – it really brings the 'dirty' into that whole 'dirty South' look you've got going."

Kitty shot Jubilee an evil look. There was no way she'd get anything out of Rogue if Jubilee kept antagonizing her. Besides, that was just rude – even for Jubilee. Even though the skirt was a little slutty.

OK, a lot slutty. But whatever.

She noticed Rogue stroking the arm of the chair absently, glancing in the direction of the door even as she took a deep breath. Kitty knew what was coming – one of Rogue's infamous tirades.

Kitty had neither the time nor the energy to deal with Rogue's yelling. "If you're looking for Gambit," and she paused significantly, giving Rogue's outfit an all-too-obvious once-over, "he's just left. He said he was looking for you."

She had the full and complete attention of both Rogue and Jubilee. "I don't know what you're playing at, Rogue, but I don't want to see you hurt. You can talk to me."

It was a little blunt, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Rogue had been moping around the mansion like a ghost of her former self ever since she'd gotten the Cure. Her powers were coming back – Kitty was still not quite sure if Rogue was relieved or terrified at that prospect. It had seemed, at first, like the Cajun would draw her out of her shell, but she'd only withdrawn further.

This game she was playing – and Kitty was sure it was only a game – was tearing Rogue apart.

"Talk to you? Like ah could get a word in edgewise! And even if ah could, ah wouldn't go blabbin' mah innermost feelins ta th' sparkle princess here. The both o'ya are the biggest gossips in tha mansion!"

Her accent was always thicker when she was upset. But at least she wasn't running away. Yet.

She gambled. "This isn't a game of tag – you *do* know what happens when he lets you catch him, right?"

* * *

Author's Note: OK, sorry about the long delay (cringe). I'd actually had this mostly written, but life's been kind of crazy. Anyways, please review, it always gives me the warm fuzzies!


	10. Chapter 10

**Curiosity**

**Chapter 10: The Chase**

Disclaimer: Eh. Since you're not watching this on Cartoon Network or reading it in anything with the "Marvel" imprint, I suppose it should be obvious that I don't own Gambit (*sigh*). Or Rogue, or any of the other X-Men. Please don't sue, I'm not profiting.

Author's Note: There's a movie called A Shot in the Dark – it's an old Pink Panther movie, and it has the best opening sequence of any move. Ever. It's basically the main characters (the suspects) sneaking around this old French mansion, narrowly avoiding bumping into each other. That's sort of my road-map for this chapter – lots of sneaking around, chasing each other and general mayhem. I apologize in advance for all the jumping around in POV, I'm doing my best to make this chapter the last transition to the final showdown (which may or may not be 2+ chapters).

Update – this chappie has ballooned to 9+ pages, and I've got a few more scenes to flesh out (I planned this chapter out like a good little girl, which is why it's taking so long … and hopefully also why it's going to actually go somewhere).

And … cue the music!

* * * * *

"That went well," Jubilee remarked wryly.

Kitty didn't even have words to describe how well it **hadn't** gone. Rogue hadn't taken her gentle admonition kindly . . .

Thankfully, Rogue hadn't resorted to violence. She hadn't really even said anything before she stormed off in a huff. And no one stormed like Rogue in high dudgeon – she was the only person Kitty knew who could slam an invisible door.

"Rogue was here." It wasn't a question, so much as it was a command. Kitty squeaked in surprise, phasing through her chair reflexively as Wolverine made his entrance.

She popped back out of the overstuffed chair almost immediately … and immediately wished she'd stayed intangible just a moment longer.

Kitty phased back out, making good her exit while Wolverine was distracted with Jubilee. She supposed she should be grateful for the excuse to cut and run – she had a lot of work to do. She wanted something to give Storm the next time the Goddess found her.

* * * * *

Things were not going well. She hadn't expected Kitty to pull the information on Gambit out of thin air, but she'd thought the child would at least **look** for some information on the party (or parties) responsible for the series of attacks on her teammates. Instead, the girl was gossiping and watching television.

Ororo took a deep breath as a peal of thunder shattered the afternoon calm, rattling the windows in their frames. Perhaps she could use a cup of tea, to soothe her thoughts. She pulled out the tea kettle. The microwave was faster, but there was a lot to be said for the calming effects of the ritual of making tea.

She took a seat at the small table next to the large bay window, soaking up the warmth of the autumn sun while she waited for the water to boil.

* * * * *

Kitty was upset – things were not going her way.

Errors.

Blipping and flashing and dancing across her screen. A sea of timeouts and dropped packets.

Her search was not going well … mostly because she couldn't even get the minimal bandwidth required to upload her search-spiders onto several strategically placed, anonymous servers and let them crawl around and do the searching for her. She'd resorted to the somewhat clumsy technique for several reasons, the most pressing of which was the need to avoid detection at all costs.

A couple keystrokes revealed the problem: an overwhelming portion of the school's entire bandwidth was being eaten up by activity on one subnet. She shouldn't have even bothered hacking into the router to see the problem; as per usual, it was the boys.

Well, desperate times called for desperate measures. She took a deep breath, phasing as far out as she could and floating down through the floor. It didn't take her long to find what she was looking for: clean, well-lit and cool, equipment neatly stacked and wired. All the routers and servers, humming and flashing obediently …

She considered phasing through the Cisco router that handled the traffic from the east wing, frying it for good – the boys' dormitories. She decided against it; she furrowed her brow in concentration, phasing her arm through the bars of the server cage and forcing just enough tangibility to her fingers to disconnect the network cable from the router.

It probably wouldn't take the boys long to notice and investigate. Even the most technology-challenged mutant was likely to notice the single unplugged cable amongst the mass of neatly bundled wiring. For once, Kitty almost regretted the rigid professionalism with which their server room was maintained.

Such a pity …

Inspiration struck, and she pulled a thin piece of paper from her pocket – a receipt of some sort. She tore off a small piece, and set it carefully over the pin as she plugged the cable back in. It would pass a cursory inspection, but the thin paper would interfere with the connection, leaving her positively swimming in bandwidth.

Victory would be hers.

Kitty yanked her arm out of the cage as soon as the deed was done, phasing her forearm back into solidity and flexing her fingers. She'd always been bothered by the implications of being able to selectively phase, and it was even more disturbing to manipulate her solid hand through her intangible arm. At first, it had seemed like a physical impossibility that her arm, while intangible, would be able to support her hand, let alone conduct the millions of electrical impulses to direct said hand. Once she thought about it, she realized that her entire mutation was problematic in the face of Newtonian physics. Even Einstein's relativistic time-is-matter-is-energy doctrine failed to explain how two objects were able to occupy the same space at the same time … for example, her head and whatever wall, door, or person she happened to be phasing through at the time.

Thinking about it for too long tended to give her a headache. Beast had offered an explanation rooted in String Theory – which she'd thought she'd understood until the part where he postulated that she was able to modulate her fundamental frequency (or, really, the fundamental frequency of every single subatomic particle in and around her body) to match perfectly that of the object through which she was phasing, producing a wave cancellation effect that allowed her sub-atomic components to oscillate in and out of "phase" at opposite ends of each others' waveforms. Which sounded to her a bit like time-slicing reality. (1)

Her head was aching already. But, on the plus side – victory. She smiled as she phased all the way out and floated back to her room.

* * * * *

"Hey, watch where you're going, bub!"

Remy LeBeau was, hands-down, the best thief in the world. He was stealthy, agile, and light-footed, and he'd taught as much of his art as he could to the weather witch he was now tailing through Xavier's mansion.

She'd learned well. She had almost spotted him at least twice (he must be getting sloppy), and he'd dropped far enough back that he'd been forced to sprint to make up ground, so he wouldn't lose her entirely. He'd been sure she was heading for a liaison, but then … she'd walked right by the room, with barely a pause. Something – or someone – in the room had caused her to change her mind.

So, here he was, feeling more than a little sheepish about having run headlong into one of the students after a mad dash around one of the many blind corners. His luck being what it was (and lately, what it was, was nonexistent), he found himself confronted by a very angry blonde mutant.

"Sorry, mon ami. Didn' see y'."

Wait, he knew this guy.

Remy swore as he dodged the wave of ice the smaller man hurled at him.

"What's your problem? You think you can just run people over?"

He really didn't want to fight the guy. "Calm dow', mon ami, said I was sorry!"

Remy's feet slipped out from underneath him, his head impacting the solid paneled wall with an audible crack.

OK, now he wanted to fight this guy. He flipped to his feet in time to avoid another blast of slush, slipping a little but managing to keep his footing on the iced-up floor.

Sneaky bastard.

Remy manfully resisted the urge to pull a card out of one of his hidden pockets. This little twerp wasn't worth it – besides, if he wasted much more time here, he'd lose Storm for sure.

* * * * *

The watched pot was not boiling.

Storm: Weather Witch, Goddess of the Elements, X-Man … she had other titles, too. She was the Queen of Wakanda. She wielded both political and elemental power the likes of which few other women (or men, for that matter) had access to. With a thought, she could summon cyclones powerful enough to level the strongest buildings. And she found herself sitting at the kitchen table, kicking one foot idly and creating miniature dust devils while she waited for the water to boil.

She sighed, watching disinterestedly as a scrap of paper was caught up in the eddy, dancing nimbly around the other swirls of dust.

A faint whistle stirred her from her musings. The water was almost at a boil.

She smiled, letting her little dust devil go and reaching for the tea: there was nothing like a good rooibos Chai to clear the mind and soothe the senses.

A faint whoosh was her only warning before the kettle froze over, the water freezing and cracking as it came to a boil.

Bobby froze as the angry Goddess rounded on him, stopping him in his tracks. Remy breezed on by, ducking around Storm with a cheeky salute to the iced-over X-Man.

"Bobby, there had better be a very good explanation for this."

"Um …"

Bobby was too distracted by Remy's escape to think of a decent excuse. The thief had managed to use Storm as a cover, without her even noticing he was there. Bobby could only hope that Storm didn't find herself anywhere near the boys' dorms … at least, not until the ice melted.

Think, Bobby …

A loud clap of displaced air broke his frantic train of thought, accompanied by a waft of sulfurous vapor. Saved by the brimstone!

Storm broke eye contact with Bobby long enough to shoot Kurt a powerful glare. "Kurt, I've asked you numerous times not to teleport into the kitchen. The smell is … unsettling."

"Entschuldigung, Ms. Munroe, but I was working on my paper when the internet went down, and so I decided to come take a break and have a snack, but when I went into the hallway it was too icy to walk."

Kurt smiled up at her, all innocence and apology.

Bobby groaned. Nothing was going his way, today. He should have pulled a page from that Cajun thief's book and made good his escape while Storm was distracted with Kurt.

* * * * *

It was nearly noon, and Rogue had seen neither hide nor hair of that damn Cajun swamp rat thief … her feet were hurting almost as much of her pride. Not that she'd had much of her feet **or** her pride left after cramming herself into the too-tall boots and the too-short miniskirt on this lovely, crisp autumn day.

Without even thinking, she headed for the kitchen. Ice cream would fix everything. A shiver wracked her frame as a chill wind swept through the hallway. Or perhaps a bowl of soup would be better.

She was still trying to decide what exactly she wanted (steadfastly ignoring the growling voice in the back of her head that insisted Bourbon was the only cure for a cold day) when she swept into the kitchen. She breezed past the group arguing in front of the stove (nothing new, around here) and headed straight for the fridge …

… only to find herself flat on her back on the floor, staring up at Bobby, Storm, and Kurt, wondering what had just happened. Her head was killing her, she must have hit it when she fell.

Damn boots. Rogue shifted into a sitting position, ignoring Storm's admonition to stay still and Bobby's rather pointed stare. The floor was freezing. Literally freezing. It was actually covered in a thin layer of ice …

"Bobby! You low-down, no-good, sneaky little rat!"

"It's not my fault!" Bobby blurted out the denial without thinking. He'd been more than a little distracted by Rogue's spectacular flailing wipeout when she walked in, and that outfit of hers definitely wasn't helping in the concentration department.

She'd never worn anything like that when they'd been together.

She'd never worn anything like that … ever.

"There's ice all over the floor, Bobby, am I supposed to believe it's Kurt's fault? And ya can stop starin' at me anytime."

"Um …" He didn't think it would be quite politick to point out that he wasn't the only person in the room with the power over ice.

"Rogue, I think you hit your head, child. Perhaps it would be best if you headed to the infirmary."

"I'm fine, thank you Ms. Munroe … I'm just hungry, and I wasn' payin' attention, and I completely missed the sign warning that the kitchen may ice before the road, or somethin' like that … besides, I mean, who **wouldn't** assume there would be **ice** on the **kitchen floor** in **September**? Silly me."

"If she's being sarcastic, I'm sure she's fine." It slipped out before he could stop himself, earning Bobby an evil look from Kurt, and two almost-identical glares from Storm and Rogue.

"Bobby!" Ororo crossed her arms, staring pointedly at the Iceman.

"Um … ?" Think, Bobby, think. Deflect blame. "Ms. Munroe, those boots she's wearing are …" Distracting, hot, dangerous, super-hot, his mind gleefully supplied. "… really not suited to the terrain," he finished weakly.

"Am I to take it that by 'terrain' you mean the kitchen?"

"Und ze hallway outside ze boys dorm!" Kurt chimed in helpfully.

Ororo chuckled softy, shooting Kurt a conspiratorial look out of the corner of her eye. "Really, Bobby, I had no idea you were so interested in women's fashions. I suggest you go back to your dorm room and stay there. Try not to create anymore 'terrain' on you way up there. I'll be sending Wolverine to talk to you about using powers in the house, and about respecting your team mates! And about your unnatural interest in women's shoes!"

Bobby opened his mouth to protest, and then it hit him that hiding out for a few hours was probably the smartest thing he could do at this point. He turned an abrupt about-face, making a beeline for the door before he could dig himself even deeper. Today just wasn't his day. He couldn't help thinking that this was somehow all that damn Cajun's fault.

"Are you sure you're OK, Rogue?" Storm was looking down at her with a mix of suspicion and concern. Which she supposed made sense, given that she was still on the floor.

Rogue clambered to her feet, brushing herself off as best she could. "I'm just fine, thank y'."

Rogue had never been what Storm would call graceful – not on the ground, anyway – but those boots would surely try even her own skills. She stopped herself short of asking Rogue where she'd acquired them. She had more important things to worry about than boots.

Storm was torn – she wasn't at all sure Rogue was "OK" by any definition of the word, but she had matters to attend to. Tracking down Wolverine when he didn't want to be found (which seemed to be most of the time, actually) was always a task, and she still needed to find Kitty for a one-on-one talk.

She spared a glance at the still-frozen kettle before stalking out of the kitchen, swearing quietly to herself.

* * * * *

Remy was having a hard time keeping quiet. A small alcove in the hallway outside the kitchen provided an excellent vantage point for eavesdropping. He found it oddly satisfying to hear the ice-jerk get his come-uppance from Storm. And Rogue …

This was a sticky wicket. Storm strode past, oblivious to his presence. He'd been looking for Rogue all morning. Then again, he was almost positive Storm was up to something.

Curiosity won out over certain of his other drives, and he swept soundlessly down the hall after the Goddess. He needn't have bothered with stealth; for a Saturday afternoon, there were quite a few people roaming the corridor's of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. He was hardly a conspicuous presence.

* * * * *

Logan hated Saturdays.

He'd settled in to something of a routine. Saturday meant no morning Danger Room exercises, which meant he generally had unchallenged claim to the first pot of coffee (not that anyone in their right minds would deny Logan his morning cup of Joe). While the whole mansion slumbered, he had the opportunity to explore the grounds, to appreciate the natural beauty of the terrain surrounding Xavier's upstate mansion.

The peace never lasted long – but it usually afforded him a chance to watch the sun rise, have a cigar.

Today was no exception. It took a little longer than usual, but before the sun reached its zenith, Storm had managed to track him down. He'd taken to making a little game of it, switching up locations, alternating hiding in trees or atop rocky embankments.

Not hiding, he corrected himself. Meditating. Communing with nature, and all that.

He was a first rate tracker (despite his failure to corner Rogue earlier that morning), and as such was an expert in leaving no trace … but none of that was any use when your pursuant could fly.

It was business as usual – though Storm seemed quite a bit more agitated than usual. There was definitely something bothering her if Bobby's little redecorating stunt got her into such a huff. From her expression, he'd been expecting something a little more drastic. She'd mentioned something about Rogue, as well … muttered something under her breath about boots, as well, but surely he'd been mistaken …

If the Iceman was acting out because of Rogue, it would be prudent to deal with the issue before it got out of hand. Officially, Scott was in charge of keeping order in the boys' dorm, but Ororo had learned that Logan's results were quicker, and longer-lasting, than any extra chores that Scott could assign.

Logan sighed, grinding out the cigar against the bark of the tree he was perched in. Trying to ram a point though Drake's thick skull always gave him a headache. If he wanted to have any reasonable chance at making it to dinner, he'd better get started.

* * * * *

Kitty smiled, a subtle quirk of her lips that had always sent Rogue running for the hills. With the boys' dorm effectively cut off from the T-1 line, her efforts were bearing fruit.

Dirt, rather – on Remy LeBeau, Prince of Thieves, and the shadowy organization known as the Thieves' Guild.

Her web-spider had turned up a number of possible leads on its first crawl through cyberspace, and she was just about finished sorting the potential from the useless. She'd tweak the parameters a few times and send it back out, then feed the data through a specialized parser she'd cooked up. All of this was just to sort through the publicly available information. All she had to do was sit back and sort through the piles of data her spiders had returned.

There wasn't much information regarding Remy LeBeau in the public domain, or anyone with the surname LeBeau, for that matter. No birth certificate on Remy, but she did turn up the adoption paperwork from the Orleans Parish Civil Court Records. It seems Remy was adopted.

Interesting.

A wedding announcement, a few obituaries from twenty years ago for what she could only assume were cousins or uncles …

She frowned.

There was an article announcing the arrangement of marriage of Remy LeBeau and one Belladonna Boudreaux. The article listed his age as fourteen, hers as twelve.

There was another, more recent announcement of the impending nuptials. She hadn't realized that anyone still brokered marriages … but then, New Orleans was home to all manner of quaint Southern customs.

It seemed that both the LeBeau's and the Boudreaux's were old-world money – among the original French settlers of the area. The coverage of the wedding in the mainstream press had been slavish – almost fawning. It had been the social event of the season, it seems.

Until Remy had walked away. Left his beautiful young bride standing at the altar.

Kitty ran a few quick searches – pulled a list of registered companies for both the Boudreaux's and the LeBeau's, and ran a reverse lookup search for any domains affiliated with any of the addresses or names on file with the state or the parish.

A simple packet sniffer, deployed through a proxy server, gave her an overview of the architecture: two main mail servers, a couple of firewalls … nothing else facing the internet.

A few clicks, and she'd set up a packet sniffer to watch the firewalls. Now for the mail servers – unpatched Windows machines running an out-of-date version of Exchange. (2)

Like candy from a baby.

While she was siphoning data from the mail server, encrypting and redirecting the data through a series of proxy servers, she set to work on the firewalls. Whoever had set those up had known what they were doing.

A soft chime heralded the arrival of the emails.

She set a parser up to classify the bulk of it, and sat back to wait, twirling her hair idly. It was a little odd that Remy showed no legitimate employment records, but not out of the realm of credibility. After all, he had been adopted into one of the wealthiest families in New Orleans.

Which beggared the question: why? Jean Luc LeBeau had already produced an heir, though he lacked the spare. Still, mortality rates had improved somewhat since the middle ages, largely removing the "need" for a spare, even amongst families who saw themselves as having a legacy to guard. Remy was a nobody, and Jean Luc had adopted him off the streets, out of the blue.

The Boudreaux's public records were fairly boring – other than the wedding coverage. And the tendency of the patriarchs to die young. She did the math on the birth and death certificates – none of the first-born males had lived past forty-five.

The emails … there were a lot of emails.

Kitty dove in, starting with the LeBeau's private server.

* * * * *

Jean sighed, tossing her pencil aside in frustration. Her day was not going well. She had a ton of applications to complete, but she was barely able to concentrate long enough to write her own name. The entire school was fairly buzzing with pent-up energy.

The last time she'd heard this kind of mental noise was when a freak April blizzard had downed the T-1 line, leaving the students to attempt to entertain themselves during the four hour turnaround guaranteed by the contract with the telecomm company.

Needless to say, all manner of havoc had ensued.

If she concentrated hard enough, she could almost make sense of the chaos swirling around her … she could also get a pounding migraine.

She checked her watch, and decided to have a bite to eat. That would clear her head. And hopefully stave off the headache.

* * * * *

"Are you sure, child?"

Kitty ignored the 'child' part and nodded grimly. Storm had been hard to track down, and she supposed she should have waited for the Goddess to come to her, but after she'd sorted through those emails …

"I'm certain that all of the … information you've gathered was obtained through legal means?"

"As far as anyone can prove, I haven't 'obtained' anything," Kitty said dismissively.

Storm nodded a curt approval.

"Well? What are we going to do?"

"The foibles of those two Guilds are none of our concern."

"But she's going to kill Remy! We have to do something, we have to warn him!"

"How do you propose we do that, without revealing that we've been looking into his background? I believe I can predict how that would go over – Remy LeBeau values his privacy."

"But -"

"Forewarned is forearmed. I don't plan to allow Belladonna to get her hands on Gambit. Nor do I plan to stand idly by while she instigates a hostile takeover of the New York crime syndicate. However, a certain amount of discretion is called for in situations such as these."

"But-"

"Hush, child, I need to think."

Kitty sighed softly, barely managing to control the urge to roll her eyes. She couldn't understand how Storm was taking the news so calmly. She wasn't sure on specifics, but rumors had been swirling around the mansion about the nature of the Goddess' relationship with the Prince. Even if they weren't true (and Kitty earnestly believed that at the heart of every rumor was a seed of truth), she knew Remy. Was friends with him.

Which had to make the news that his former bride was planning to murder him in a convoluted plot to seize control of both the Assassins' Guild and the Thieves' Guild in New Orleans at least a little unsettling. And if that didn't raise her eyebrows, then the revelation that Belladonna was using the Morlocks as fuel to ignite the fire that would draw Remy out of hiding and deliver control of the syndicated crime networks based in New York City should.

Honestly, if Belladonna wasn't so evil, Kitty would have been forced to admit the simple brilliance of it all.

* * * * *

Logan couldn't remember his childhood, but he didn't imagine that he was particularly quiet or reserved. (3) While it would be more than a bit of a stretch to describe the mutants housed under Xavier's roof as quiet (or reserved, or civilized) it occurred to him that the boys were a bit … rowdier than usual. Jaime was all over the place, for one – which was nothing unusual in and of itself – but he seemed to have spread himself a bit thin.

With a barely repressed snarl, Wolverine waded through the crowd of duplicates. The hallway was definitely showing signs of having been frozen over recently; a few of the Jaime's were ice-skating along one of the side corridors that still held a few small patches of ice.

He sighed; looks like Storm hadn't been exaggerating the magnitude of the chaos Bobby had managed to instigate in just a few short hours.

Logan turned the corner to Bobby's hallway, exhaling sharply as he ran face-first into a solid object. He blinked to clear his vision; he was lucky that he had his regenerative power. The healing factor didn't stop it from hurting when he broke his nose on Piotr's chest.

"Excuse me, Mr. Logan, I didn't see you there."

For someone who was built like a tank even when he wasn't covered head-to-toe in bio-metallic armor, Piotr Rasputin was entirely too … well-mannered.

Logan grunted in response. "Where you goin' in such a hurry, kid?"

Piotr froze like a deer in the headlights. "The internet is down, so I thought I would go to the gardens. To paint."

Logan grunted again, shouldering past him. That certainly explained the chaos he'd seen thus far. He was already knocking on Bobby's door when he realized that Piotr' hadn't been carrying a canvas or paintbrushes. Or paint.

Whatever.

* * * * *

Kitty was deep in thought when a thunderous pounding at her door sent her heart leaping into her throat. And her laptop thundering toward the floor. She caught it just in the nick of time, barely managing to keep her grip on it when the knocking started again.

Not even Wolverine sounded like that; it was like an entire mountain range was not-so-gently rapping at her chamber door.

She set the laptop safely on her nightstand, and rushed to the door before her visitor could knock again. She liked having a door, she really did, and it would be a pity to see hers demolished.

Red filled her vision as she flung the door open, ready to give her visitor a piece of her mind. The color filled her doorway. Piotr liked red. It reminded him of home, and of family.

She looked up – waaay up – and was met with the unmistakable ice-blue of his eyes.

Kitty giggled nervously. "Hello, Piotr."

"Hallo, Kit-ty."

Piotr was always careful around other people – careful of the way he moved, careful of his speech, careful of his strength – and he was always doubly vigilant around Kitty.

"Um, I was wondering …"

Kitty smiled encouragingly up at him, gesturing for him to come in. Heaven forbid Jubilee or Amara see him standing at her door; that was how rumors got started. Not that she minded the idea of being linked to Piotr Rasputin in the mansion gossip … after the last rumors (true, but that was beside the point) had nearly destroyed her friendship with Rogue, Kitty had made a conscious decision to fly under the radar, as it were.

She'd seen Piotr a few times, outside of school grounds. She supposed normal people would call it dating. Fortunately, no one at the mansion was anything approaching "normal" – and even more fortunately, Rogue was the only person that seemed to have figured out she was seeing someone. And even Rogue didn't know who.

He really was a sweet boy. And really did seem to be having trouble articulating the purpose for his visit. She saw him eying her laptop, and she casually flipped the cover shut, flopping down on her bed and pasting an innocent expression on her face.

"Kitty, I was vondering iff you could help me – the internet in the boys' dorm iss down, and I was wanting to veb-conference with my sister, Ilyana."

"Really, the internet is down? How long has it been?"

"All afternoon. What you are doing on your laptop, iss it important?"

What was she doing on her laptop – felonies, hacking government-level encryption on firewalls – important?

"Uh, I was just doing some … research." Researching the private files of New Orleans' biggest criminal syndicates.

"Oh, I see – I would not wish to interfere with your studies."

"No!" Dammit, now she was feeling guilty. She knew it wasn't often that he got to speak with his sister. "I mean, yes, it's important. Um, perhaps Amara would let us borrow her laptop." She almost cringed as she said it.

* * * * *

Rogue's stomach was growling. Her feet were still aching, and she'd sustained quite a few scratches clambering into her tree.

Wolverine's tree, truth be told. She could smell the faint aroma of cigar smoke.

She supposed it said something about her state of mind that she was able to rationalize her habits – Wolverine's habits. She'd absorbed him enough, and recently enough, that his mind seemed at times to intertwine seamlessly with hers.

The tree-climbing wasn't nearly as disturbing as the bizarre cravings – everything from raw meat to cigars and bourbon. She was almost getting used to his (her) habit of eyeing up women, and the fights (truth be told, she wasn't entirely sure that particular tendency was all his).

It was just her luck he wasn't here. Not that he'd have anything favorable to say about her outfit, or her motives behind it … he could always read her like a book. Like she was in his head as much as he was in hers.

God, she needed a drink. And a nice long bubble bath.

She sighed softly as she felt the wind shift, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of rain. The weather around the mansion, never what she'd call predictable, had degenerated into "freaky" territory since Remy LeBeau had moved in. No one was brave (read: stupid) enough to confront Storm personally, but the safe money was on the dark-eyed Goddess having something to do with the erratic weather.

Natural or no, either way she was screwed. She swung down from the tree, wincing slightly as she landed heavily on her much-abused feet. She didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of reaching the safety of the mansion before all hell broke loose.

The first few drops splashed messily around her as she hobbled through the forest, silently damning Remy LeBeau, the designer responsible for the medieval torture devices that were masquerading as her boots, and men in general.

* * * * *

Belladonna Boudreaux sat comfortably at her father's massive antique Bureau du Roi, staring at the clock mounted in the ornate woodwork decorating the monstrosity. She hated that desk for everything it symbolized, yet she wanted it badly … it made the one in the Louvre – the original Bureau du Roi commissioned for Louis XV – look like the common cylinder desk on which it was based. The gilt carvings, the exquisite marquetry of priceless and impossible-to-find hardwoods and mother-of-pearly, the clawed feet … it symbolized power and authority just as it symbolized her family's blind adherence to past traditions. For centuries the patriarch of the Assassins' Guild had sat behind this desk, rendering judgment against traitors and administering the empire.

Boudreaux family tradition held that it had been built by the same master cabinet maker that had built King Louis. Another tradition held that the desk had a twin – an exact duplicate sitting in Jean Luc LeBeau's private study.

Well, she'd soon see the truth in that one. Too bad that she planned on disposing of her father and Remy in one fell swoop; she'd have loved to face Remy from behind this desk, see him brought before her and tried for his betrayal – of her and of her Guild.

She flipped open her laptop, verifying that the family jet was still parked at Paris Beauvais Tillé airport. While her father gadded about Paris negotiating with the Old World guilds, she'd been able to pad the ranks of his followers with men loyal to her – men with skills more marketable than just the ability to pick locks.

Her computer specialist had been able to institute some fairly sophisticated upgrades to their server infrastructure … or so he'd told her. As far as she knew, they hadn't really had a server infrastructure before Frederic. She really had no way of knowing, except that she trusted that he was too frightened of her to lie to her.

Her enemies had access to far more sophisticated technology than she could ever hope to get her hands on, a fact on which she was counting. Frederic had already given word that their systems had been breached.

Belladonna wasn't a gambling woman, but she'd bet every penny her family had that the mutants Gambit was holed up with were the ones behind the attack. Frederic had painted quite the picture; with any luck, the X-Men were already on their way to the ambush she'd set up. There would be far more than a local contingent of thugs waiting for them.

After all, she had a kingdom to usurp, a veritable empire to build, and she'd need more than computer geeks to help her do it.

* * * * *

Ororo watched the mansion shrinking rapidly in her rear-view mirror, shrugging off the feeling of guilt at nicking Remy's cherished motorcycle. If Kitty was right, she needed to deal with this situation in New York. As a bonus, by stealing his bike she ensured that Gambit wouldn't be following her when Kitty blabbed.

When, not if. Ororo had no doubt that Kitty would be unable to keep such a juicy tidbit to herself. With any luck, she'd have the situation handled well before Kitty alerted the entire mansion.

Normally, she'd have relied on her team – disclosed the information to Xavier and let the entire team formulate a plan. The situation with Belladonna, and the New York family, and the anti-mutant gangs … well, this required a delicate touch. She owed Gambit, and she wasn't going to let Belladonna set him up.

Luckily, she had a few favors she could call in.

* * * * *

As per usual, of late, nothing was going her way. Rogue finished the trek to the mansion in a dead sprint, her boots slipping precariously on the muddy grass. As she'd predicted, the rain hit well before she was even close to the safety of the mansion.

It was indicative of her luck as of late that she wasn't at all surprised to be greeted in the foyer by a veritable welcoming party. She stumbled in the door, tripping over herself … and the umbrella stand. It crashed to the marbled floor, disgorging its store of rain-gear in a clattering explosion of irony.

Which no one noticed.

Rogue wrung out her hair, resisting the impulse to shake herself off like a dog. She edged carefully around the crowd, none of whom had deigned to notice her yet. Wolverine seemed to be at the center of the chaos, as per usual. He seemed to be interrogating Kitty about something.

To her left – in the shadows under the main staircase – she saw something … an eerily familiar red glow. She didn't have time to revel in the irony, fortunately.

"Rogue! Mein Schwester, you are soaked to ze bone!"

Perfect. As though on cue, the entire crowd turned its attention to her.

This was unbelievable. She should have been expecting something of the sort, though, with the way her days had been consistently sliding from bad to worse of late. God, what she wouldn't give to be able to teleport … anything to get away from all of their prying stares. She could hear them, inside and outside her head, drowning out her own thoughts with their silent chaos.

She hadn't felt like this … well, since she'd taken the Cure.

Rogue was no more shocked than they were when the floorboards creaked dangerously under her suddenly-increased weight. A glance down at her hands – ungloved in an increasingly common act of defiance – confirmed it. She was armored up like Piotr.

How was this even possible? She hadn't had any contact with Piotr since … well, it was a good thing she couldn't blush through bio-metallic armor.

"Rogue!"

Wolverine shouldered his way through the crowd, a concerned expression on his face.

Rogue couldn't think past the jumble of thoughts rattling around in her head, inside and out, screaming and yelling and whispering and laughing. They were mocking her, she was sure of it. She had to get away, away from Wolverine's awkward fatherly concern, away from Kitty's shock and worry, away from Kurt and from Jean … was this was Jean felt like when she went nuts on stage after receiving the soccer MVP? Could Jean hear her, even now?

She was going crazy. She was certain of it now. It had occurred to her, when she'd first taken the Cure and – powerless – found herself not alone in her own thoughts. All of the psyches that she'd absorbed with her gift – as the Professor chose to label her curse – all of them were still camping out in her head.

They were talking to her, crowded around her, stifling her. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

She had to get away.

The world shifted around her, and she found herself smothering, crushed by the weight and the heat of the impossible geometry of the world around her. There was fire, and hate … so much evil. She closed her eyes, praying for the first time in her life.

* * * * *

(1) IANAQP: I Am Not A Quantum Physicist. Phasing just seems so … plausible, compared to the rest of the mutations that I couldn't resist trying to explain it.

(2) Both bad ideas.

(3) Actually, I think he was … If I remember correctly, he was a sickly child.

Author's Note (part deux): OK, I was originally going to try to get all of my plot lines untangled in this chapter. (Not necessarily end the story here, but just sort of wrap up loose ends) However, it seems that this chapter is getting really, really long. Anyway, sorry for the long window between updates. Please review!


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